


Tennessee Whiskey

by TrenchcoatBaby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Bad First Impressions, Bisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Drinking, Drunk Dean Winchester, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Famous Castiel (Supernatural), Famous Dean Winchester, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Hot Tub, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Singer Castiel (Supernatural), Singer Dean Winchester, Title from a Country Song, singing in bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 12:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby/pseuds/TrenchcoatBaby
Summary: Dean Winchester is a midwestern farm boy turned country music icon. Castiel Novak is a rising star pushing the boundaries of the genre, his fame reaching new heights. Despite never having met him, Dean hates Castiel completely, and one of those reasons is definitelynotbecause Castiel is the hottest man on the planet. Nope.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedragonfae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedragonfae/gifts).

> Howdy, y’all. (I thought that greeting would be appropriate for this story, haha.) This is my first of two lots I’m writing for the Fic Facer 2019 auction, and today’s winner is thedragonfae! She had a lot of awesome ideas for me, which included: "Enemies to lovers. Dean as a country star with Cas as a rival performer. I'm a foodie, so I especially love when Cas or Dean is an exceptional cook. I don't like things to be too easy on our boys. Smut is definitely good." With all that for inspiration, how could I not end up writing 21k? 
> 
> So, some background on this: I actually live in Tennessee, and grew up around country and bluegrass music artists. (My own family included!) I’m not a musician myself, but I worked at a guitar shop for several years, so at least know the terminology. I tried to make this story as accurate as possible.
> 
> However, I do have a few disclaimers. I know little to nothing about the modern music industry, so forgive any logistical issues. Also, I wrote in a few places that are not really in Gatlinburg. I was actually there a few weeks ago, and it’s a gorgeous place, but there were a few things I needed in order to make this fic work. As such, I tweaked a few details to make this story operate. 
> 
> This fic wouldn't have been possible without my team of amazing betas: [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), [CBFirestarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBFirestarter/pseuds/CBFirestarter), [WaywardAF67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67), [WaywardJenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardjenn/pseuds/waywardjenn), and [Lorelei2005](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorelei2005/pseuds/Lorelei2005). I'd give all the buttered-cornbread and honeyed-biscuits in the world to be with you gals right now.
> 
> Okay, showtime—put on your cowboy boots, grab some sweet tea, and enjoy!!

Dean Winchester didn’t plan to start ranting about Castiel Novak. Loudly and in public. At a bar full of fans, with paparazzi hanging around outside.

Really, he didn’t. 

“Here we go again.” Charlie, Dean’s best friend and long-time publicist, has an exasperated tone of amusement in her voice. She shakes her head in Sam’s direction and they both laugh at Dean’s grumpiness. _Traitorous brother_, Dean thinks. Did he forget who the hell did his chores so he could take all those smarty pants AP classes that helped him get into Stanford? It’s not like Dean had to invite him for the weekend, and get him backstage passes to the celebrity charity concert event happening at the convention center. He does these things because he’s a good freaking brother, which should’ve earned him some time to have a hissy fit or two. Or five. Whatever. Bottom line is, Sam should be hearing him out. 

“I would pay this place twenty bucks just to remove all traces of the dreaded ‘C’ word,” Sam says, shaking his head and chuckling. 

“I’d up that to fifty,” Charlie jokes.

Dean narrows his eyes at both of them, officially crabby. He’s also had two stout drinks and not enough to eat, so he’s feeling a little off-kilter. Maybe they should order cheese fries… That’s definitely not on his stupid diet, but screw it. Dean deserves some fun—he just finished a worldwide tour, and all he wants to be doing is relaxing back home in Lawrence. 

Instead he’s in the mountains of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, for a benefit concert being held later this week. While this place certainly ain’t Kansas, there’s something about Gatlinburg that makes him want to let loose, to relax, to drink a cup of black coffee on the porch and mess around on his acoustic just for fun. Playing music for fun—not work—now there’s an idea. Maybe he’ll ask Charlie to book his cabin for a few extra days, give him time to unwind.

“Hilarious,” Dean deadpans in their direction, and to prove he’s fully capable of hearing and saying the “C” word, he adds, “I bet _ Castiel_’s stupid British manager doesn’t make fun of him. Or his brother, that rich Casino guy. They put y’all to shame.”

Charlie stops laughing long enough to take a sip of her long island iced tea. “For someone who claims to hate Castiel Novak, you sure do know a lot about him.”

“It’s hard not to,” Dean snaps, angling his head towards a widescreen TV where one of Castiel’s music videos is playing. “Dude’s freaking everywhere.”

It’s true. Castiel Novak has just won artist of the year, after all. He’s being celebrated as the first gay country artist, even though he’s technically bi, and anyways, that’s far from true—there’s Ty Herndon, Cody Alan, tons of others. Hell, even Dean’s implied that he swings both ways in an interview or two, though the media tends to give him a “ladies man” persona anyways. The difference is, Castiel is more famous than Ty or Cody, and maybe even Dean at this point. He’s bringing LGBTQ awareness to the Country Music Association and ushering the whole damn genre into the twenty-first century, which means that all the young fans are guzzling his music like southerns gulping sweet tea. And Dean’s all about it—he’s always voted blue, his mom raised him to be a feminist, and he would settle down with a dude just as easily as a woman. He’s not bothered by Castiel’s sexual orientation…at least, not in any way that he would admit.

Because yeah, as annoying as he thinks Castiel seems, Dean has eyes. He knows the guy is drop-dead gorgeous. 

“I get no respect,” Dean complains, shaking his thoughts away and trying to lighten the mood by doing a Rodney Dangerfield impression. His bodyguard, Benny, sitting on the outer edge of their table closest to Dean and the door, gives him a sympathetic smile. “‘Specially ‘round these two.”

“Keeps you humble, brother,” Benny says, clapping him on the shoulder.

Sam and Charlie turn quiet, eyeing each other in a knowing way that makes Dean’s anger flare up. Is Dean, or is he not, a pretty damn respectable country music artist? Has he not had a whopping five albums go platinum? Is his current single, “When I’m Riding Baby,” not at the top of the country music charts?

Dean’s a big deal too. Thing is, he doesn’t flaunt it. That Novak guy is some stupid folk singer playing a watered-down version of country, crooning into the microphone like some depressed teenager, and suddenly Dean’s music is “traditional” and “old school”? 

Fuck that.

“C’mon, Winchester, cheer up,” Charlie says, elbowing him playfully. “We’re just joshing. Plus, there’s literally a mob outside this place, all fans hoping to catch a glimpse of you. Isn’t that enough?”

Dean sighs, frowning into his drink. “Char, you know that’s not it,” he says impatiently, fingering his empty glass. 

He’s thankful for his fans, he really is. He’s not jealous of Castiel’s fame or acclaim—he’s never cared about that. Hell, half of the money he makes goes to charity, the other half is spent on his family and friends. He has a few houses scattered about, his one indulgence, since he owns acreage on the outskirts of Austin and Nashville and Birmingham. But his own house is a simple one-story ranch style in Lawrence, the town where his parents still live. You don’t become a country singer without liking the country, after all. Or at least, you shouldn’t…

“What’s it about then?” Sam pipes up tentatively, as if he’s scared of the answer. Since he lives in California and Dean has been busy this year touring, he hasn’t heard Dean’s full list of complaints about Castiel—at least, not like Benny and Charlie, who ease into their chairs and sigh.

“Well, for one thing, dude’s from New York City,” Dean scoffs. “How country is that, huh? And his music is some hippie, new-age crap. Pretty sure he had a violin in one of his songs, Sam. Not a fiddle. _ A violin_.”

“Aren’t they sort of the same thing…?” Charlie begins, then sees Dean’s serious expression, and clamps her mouth shut.

“And then there’s the way he acts—all standoffish and quiet, like he’s better than everyone else,” Dean continues. “Sammy’n me, we shared a room growing up. Never had much, but we were raised by honest and decent people. Lived on a farm and worked for everything we got. Now, what about Castiel’s folks?”

“Something tells me they weren’t farmers,” Sam grumbles, teasing in his voice. Dean decides to be the bigger person and pointedly ignore him.

“His dad is a famous fucking writer—”

“Ooh, right, Chuck Shurley!” Charlie exclaims. 

“Shurley? Not Novak?” Benny asks curiously, evidently wondering about the family connection.

“Pen name,” Charlie explains breezily. 

“And his mom is some big wig corporate president.” Dean blows air through his parted lips, the exhale slow and agitated. “Dude went a prep school, then an ivy league college. Pretty sure music is just something he’s doing to prove he can, and once he’s the most famous guy on the planet, he’ll go back to his fancy upstate apartment that his parents paid for and get high with that creepy model chick he’s dating.”

“Meg Masters?” Charlie squeals. “Ooh, she’s terrifying, but hot.”

“She’s bad fucking news,” Dean says firmly. 

“And so is Castiel,” Charlie continues, and Dean almost brightens for a moment, thinking someone is finally on his side. That is, until Charlie adds, “Hot, I mean. Though maybe ‘dreamy’ is a better word for him. I don’t even bat for that team, but damn.” 

Dean thinks his brain is on the verge of short-circuiting. Castiel Novak is more than hot, more than dreamy—he’s a freaking Greek god. In a different time and circumstance, maybe Dean would hit that. He’s had the occasional one night stand with men, and he’s even thought about getting tapped by Benny a few times (it would make his everyday existence way too damn awkward, though, so they’ve remained safely in the friend zone). Maybe Castiel has messy sex hair, and thick thighs that look like they could do some real sexy damage, a tight, lean body perfect for doing the horizontal tango. 

Who cares? 

Castiel Novak is so _ not _ his type because Dean doesn’t sleep with douchebags.

“I’m getting another drink,” he says sourly, standing up suddenly with Benny on his tail. Everyone milling around in the bar makes way for him, staring and smiling, asking for pictures and autographs. It’s nice, and helps pull Dean out his bad mood a little, though it takes him nearly twenty minutes just to reach the bartender. Before he was discovered by his agent, Rowena MacLeod, Dean would find himself in a busy place like this and just be another face in the crowd. Now as he approaches, the curvy blonde bartender gives him a flirty grin and hands him another glass. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, using his best southern drawl, and he sees her grin widen. _ Jackpot. _ Maybe that’s all he needs to shake his bad mood—whiskey and a good woman. Huh, that’s kinda catchy. He should write that down…

With Benny’s help, he fights his way back through the crowd and returns to a bored-looking Sam scrolling on his phone.

“Where’s Charlie?” Benny asks, eyes sweeping the place.

“Outside. Work call,” Sam intones, still distracted and typing on his screen.

“What about?” Dean asks conversationally.

Sam shrugs, still on his phone. “I dunno, something about this weekend’s concert.”

“What’s up with you?” Dean asks, unable to keep the accusation out his voice. “You haven’t seen your big bro in two months, and day one of your trip, suddenly you’re tied to your phone?”

“Just checking in with Eileen, Dean. Chill out.” Sam finishes typing his text with a flourish and then locks his phone. He glances up, looking a little indignant, and Dean shifts uneasily under the scrutiny. 

“What?” he finally demands.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Sam leans over the table, and Benny turns his gaze elsewhere to give them the illusion of privacy. Bodyguard protocol 101—knowing what’s a group conversation, and what’s a private conversation. “Dean, you’re always telling me how hard it is to be famous. How people make a bunch of assumptions about you. How tabloids create rumors that ruin your whole day.”

“So?” Dean says, though he has a pit in his stomach that tells him he knows where this is going. 

“So, maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to judge someone based on his Wikipedia page,” Sam says dryly. “All I know about Castiel Novak is that his music is good, he’s into dudes, and he donates to a lot of charities. Sound familiar?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “We are so not the same.”

“Don’t you think there’s a chance that Castiel Novak is a nice guy just like you?”

“Dean’s a nice guy?” Charlie quips with a smirk, coming back around to the table with her cellphone in hand. She looks a little worried about something, but it’s probably just some snag in the concert logistics. 

“Depends on who’s asking,” Dean responds, playing along. He turns back to his brother with a deep sigh. “Look, I get your point. But there’s something about this guy that gets under my skin, okay?” Sam opens his mouth to respond, but Dean plows forward. “Luckily for us both, I’ll never have to meet the guy. So I can go on hating him from far, far away.” 

Sam looks unconvinced, and Charlie glances down at her phone, swallowing visibly and looking pale.

“You okay?” Dean asks her genuinely, and she squeaks out a “yes” and excuses herself to go make some more calls. Damn workaholic, Dean thinks. He should talk with Rowena and see if they can get Charlie a raise. 

The rest of the evening goes a lot smoother once the subject of Castiel Novak is laid to rest. Dean orders him and Sammy several rounds of shots, and pretty soon they’re boisterous and loud, recounting childhood stories to Benny as the bodyguard laughs in all the right spots. At some point Dean ends up with the flirty bartender sitting in his lap, and about a million phones around him photographing the whole damn thing, but he’s too tipsy to care. He’s twenty-seven, single, and pretty damn famous—anyone would take advantage of all those perks, right? He keeps seeing flashes of Charlie coming in and out, looking more and more slack-jawed as the night wears on, but she doesn’t seem to want to confide in Dean at the moment. Honestly, he’s happy to stay ignorant of whatever scheduling issue or stage problem they’ve come across—that’s tomorrow’s headache. Tonight he’s in the mountains of East Tennessee, drinking whiskey with his brother, and having a grand ol’ time. 

Eventually Dean’s hauled onto the platform stage at the front, where smaller bands play cover songs for the visiting tourists. The entire bar cheers as he walks up, and there are so many people peering up at him with excitement and glee, that he’s almost certain the bar reached its capacity hours ago. He adjusts the microphone, eyeing the acoustic guitar in the corner, and asks the ever-present bartender if he can borrow it. Of course she obliges, and he picks up the cheap Indiana acoustic, stroking the strings as he tunes her up. She doesn’t play as well as his high-dollar guitars—Taylors and Martins and Gibsons—but he’s had too much to drink to care much about his performance. Sure, it’ll be fully recorded and trending online in an hour, but that’s not something he likes to dwell on. Dean wants to be in the here and now, fully present wherever he is.

“Hope nobody here’s a firefighter, ‘cause I’m pretty sure this place reached maximum occupancy like, a hundred people ago,” Dean jokes into the mic, met instantly with a mix of laughs and hollers. He can barely even see Sam or Charlie now, they’re tucked so far back behind the crowd of fans. Benny’s hanging around the edge of the stage, obviously unnerved by all the people rushing forward and crowding the stage, trying to get a better view. 

“Some of you might not know me, but I’m Dean Winchester.” It’s a joke, and not a very humble one, but Dean’s had just enough whiskey not to feel guilty for it. He’s met with another rush of fanfair, this time accompanied with excited shrieks and screams. Dean grins down at all of them, eyes sweeping every open face. Strangers with their phones out recording, grinning ear to ear… He loves this, loves playing in smaller venues so he can really talk to the audience. 

“I grew up in the Great Plains, and the mountains we had were pretty, but nothing like these. Damn, this place is beautiful… I love the view of Cades Cove, and going out to Clingmans Dome made me feel about—” He squishes his thumb and forefinger together. “This freaking tall. There’s something about this place that I just love, and while there are so many great songs I could sing for y’all, there’s one that’s been stuck in my head all day…”

He takes a step back, adjusting the tuning pegs. Without the full band behind him, this cover will sound much more like James Taylor than The Byrds, but he doesn’t care. In the back of his mind, he reminds himself that he was chastising Castiel Novak hours ago for his folksy sound, and here Dean is, singing an acoustic ballad. Maybe his hatred of the other man _ is _ illogical… He pushes that thought down, and strums a few brief bars before softly singing:

_ Oh, the summertime is comin' _

_ And the trees are sweetly bloomin' _

_ And the wild mountain thyme _

_ Grows around the purple heather _

_ Will you go? Lassie, will you go?_

_ And we'll all go together _

_ To pick wild mountain thyme _

_ All around the purple heather_

_ Will you go? Lassie, will you go? _

_ Will you go? _

_ Will you go? _

He finishes out with a final, soft strum, receiving more modest applause than he’s honest used to. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought—did he sound terrible? Will _ TMZ _air a recording of this tomorrow and demand his early retirement? 

“Thank you,” he says, sounding a little more gruff than he means to. He’s not annoyed, just confused. There’s commotion going on near the door, the crowd pushing against itself to get closer to something or someone, and Dean’s curiosity is official piqued. “What’s going on back there?” he asks, trying to appear casual.

“It’s Castiel Novak!” a woman answers with a shout, and then a chorus of exclamation break out across the room. Still standing under the yellow flash of the stage lights, the whiskey in his system making his cheeks flushed, Dean feels like he’s been slapped in the face. _ There’s no way…there’s no goddamn, fucking way… _

“Sing!” someone shouts, but it’s not at Dean, because half the audience has their backs turned to him. The crowd is, apparently, addressing Castiel. “Sing! Sing! Sing!”

Dean places the acoustic guitar back on the stand with as much gentleness as he can muster, and then he’s pushing against the crowd, Benny following closely on his side. If he thought the bar populace was crammed together before, now it’s practically impossible to move, and Benny is struggling to keep people from tugging on Dean’s collar or stepping on his boots. This whole freaking night has become a big mistake, Dean thinks miserably, wanting nothing more than to be back in his private cabin on the mountain, away from this crowd, away from the hands grabbing him, away from Castiel fucking Novak.

That is, of course, the moment Dean runs right into him.

As much as Dean despises the guy, he recognizes Castiel immediately. He’s wearing snug jeans and a tattered denim jacket, with five o’clock shadow on his annoyingly sculpted face. His eyes are a startling blue, much deeper than any photo has every captured, and he smiles at Dean with an air of recognition that only irritates Dean further.

Even in this frenzy, sweat gathered on his forehead, Castiel is absolutely stunning.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Castiel says, practically shouting over the hum of the crowd. He pushes his chest against Dean’s, his mouth inching closer to his ear, and Dean fights back a shiver. “I’ve always wanted to meet you. You were amazing up there.”

Dean hums in the back of his throat noncommittally. For some reason this guy is trying to butter him up, but Dean knows better. His compliments are probably as fake as his love for country music, and Dean has had way too much whiskey to think otherwise. He doesn’t answer, but Castiel keeps talking.

“What do you say?” Castiel smiles at him broadly, and a distant part of Dean’s brain is tempted to call it _ charming_—but no, fuck no. “Should we practice for later and sing for them now?” 

Dean narrows his eyes in confusion. What the fuck is this guy talking about—the two of them, practice? For what?

“Do whatever the hell you want, man,” Dean says icily, “I really couldn’t care less.”

Then he pushes past him, perhaps the most famous country singer in the world, feeling immensely smug and satisfied. Yeah, that’ll show him. What, did he expect Dean to be another brown noser? To kiss his feet after some half-baked compliment? Well…not Dean Winchester, pal. Sorry to disappoint.

He breezes past Castiel without a second glance, resisting the urge to turn around, to see what the guy made of Dean’s exit.

It takes nearly ten minutes to finish pushing through, but finally Benny and Dean have reached the door. Dean is beyond ready to leave, so Benny tilts his head to Charlie and Sam, and they move to come outside and meet them. The outside is nearly just as crowded as the inside, and while some people are waving and shouting Dean’s name, if he hears the name _ Castiel Novak _uttered one more freaking time, he’s gonna flip a table. Luckily that’s when Garth pulls the car around, his dependable driver in a sleek black SUV. Benny offers Dean the front, but he squishes in the back between Charlie and Sam, fans pounding lightly on the windows as they drive away.

“Place looks like a madhouse,” Garth comments, voice filled with awe. “All those people there to see you?”

Dean clinches his hands in fists, a wave of irritation settling back over him. “Nope, not all of them. Castiel Novak is there for some reason.”

“What did you say to him?” Benny asks, turning around and eyeing Dean suspiciously. “He didn’t look happy when we left, brother.”

“Really?” Dean asks, with a mix of curiosity and pride. “What’d he look like?”

“Well,” Benny says slowly, “sad, I reckon. Sorta like he was heartbroken.”

That hits Dean squarely in the chest, and waves of remorse wash over him. Had he gone too far? 

“What…” Charlie says slowly, a warning in her voice, “…did you say to him?”

“Nothing the guy didn’t have coming,” Dean answers acidly, pushing down his guilt. But he can’t ignore the fact that Castiel had actually seemed kinda…nice. Maybe even flustered, nervous to meet Dean. Had that all been an act? Or just Dean’s imagination? 

“Dean,” Charlie says again, this time her voice low and threatening. It must be bad, because Charlie rarely uses his first name. “Tell me you didn’t make an ass of yourself.”

“Why does it matter?” Dean snaps, feeling like he’d like to be alone and go to bed. He’s realizing that he probably fucked up royally, but he’s not quite ready to face the consequences. 

“Because I’ve been on the phone with the people in charge of the benefit concert. There are dozens of country artists and performers slotted to perform—”

“Reba McEntire, Jason Isbell, Carrie Underwood, Tim McGraw,” Sam provides, as if he’s memorized the freaking lineup. When everyone gives him a look, he flushes red, the nerd, and adds, “Uh, just to name a few.”

“Well,” Charlie begins, “now there’s been a surprise addition—”

Dean closes his eyes, wondering if he can no longer see Charlie, if he won’t be able to hear her anymore. Because he’s pretty sure that she’s about to say…

“Don’t tell me—” he starts.

“Castiel Novak.” Charlie looks sheet-white with nerves and brimming with anger. 

“Well, shit,” Benny mutters, saying exactly what Dean is thinking, but he’s too stunned to speak.

“There’s more.” Charlie frowns deeply, and Dean’s heart is pounding out of his chest. “Dean, I really hope this guy is into forgiving and forgetting, because you’ll be singing a duet with him.”

***

Castiel Novak arrives at the convention center in a shiny black SUV, a bundle of nervous energy growing inside his stomach. The early morning cold makes him pull his cardigan closer, oversized and slouchy, a travel mug of coffee gripped in his hand. He’s always anxious before he arrives at rehearsal, imagining all the terrible ways he could mess up (fall off stage, sing off-key, he’s done them all). But today he’s a wreck in a way that has nothing to do with his performance.

“Cheer up, Cassie,” Balthazar says flippantly, legs crossed with a pair of outlandish sunglasses on. There are two bodyguards, one beside Castiel and one in the front seat, but they’ve barely spoken. They’re not his usual crew—just hired muscle for this specific event. “One little duet and then it’s over.”

Castiel scoffs, unable to help himself. “It’s a whole day of rehearsal _ and _a live performance,” he points out, before adding, “with a man who apparently hates me for no reason.”

“He’s jealous,” his manager says simply, and though Castiel thinks that might be part of it, he believes something else is going on with Dean Winchester that’s much more complicated. He’s a country music icon and Cas has followed the man’s career for years now, knows the lyrics to nearly all his songs. He was Castiel’s inspiration all those years he played in rundown bars or on sidewalks for spare change. It never hurt that Dean is drop-dead gorgeous, single, bisexual, and seemingly funny and kind, checking all of Castiel’s boxes. As recently as two weeks ago, he fantasized about them playing a show together and hitting it off instantly… Then Balthazar had gotten a call from the country music benefit concert in the Smokies, asking Cas to join the lineup. Even though he would be incredibly jetlagged from his recent tour in the UK, he told himself that he couldn’t miss the opportunity to meet his idol and crush. _ Dean Winchester. _

“I’m an idiot for thinking someone like that would want to be friends with me,” Castiel grumbles self-deprecatingly. He’s having a pity party and he knows it, but he’s never quite been this let down by someone before. He feels rejected by someone whose approval he not only wanted, but craved.

Balthazar kicks him squarely in the shin, which is more startling than painful. Before Castiel can protest, his manager is speaking to him in a firm and unyielding voice, and he just takes a gulp of his coffee and waits for the lecture to end. “Don’t let Dean Winchester get to you,” Balthazar says fiercely. “You just finished up the European leg of your _ sold out _ tour. Next week, you’ll be immersed in Las Vegas debauchery with Gabriel. Your album is at the top of the charts. You just won Artist of the Year. Castiel, there is no one who _ isn’t _ rooting for you right now, and if Dean Winchester is the only one, then tell him to piss off.”

Castiel chuckles darkly, wishing it was as simple as that. He’s always been a little reserved, quieter on the outside but ambitious and unrestrained on the inside. He considers himself socially awkward, and his ex-girlfriend, Meg Masters, still loves to remind him that his people skills are “rusty.” As rude as she can be, that conclusion is not far off—the media has been uncharastically kind to him in the editing of his interviews. He’s never been the type to go up to someone and introduce himself, not out of fear so much as the suspicion that no one wants to be bothered by him. Approaching Dean Winchester had been completely out of character for him, but when he’d walked inside that bar and saw him on stage—eyes closed, acoustic guitar strumming, softly singing “Wild Mountain Thyme” more earnestly than any rendition Castiel’s ever heard, something had just…clicked.

He had never wanted to meet anyone more.

His attempt had completely backfired, obviously, in a way that confuses Cas to no end. What the hell did he ever do to Dean Winchester? And why did he act like he didn’t know about their duet…surely someone would’ve told him?

“You’re right,” Castiel tells Balthazar, though his voice is flat and he doesn’t mean it. His manager cuts his eyes and opens his mouth, as if he has another argument up his sleeve, but Castiel adds, “Let’s just get through today.”

Balthazar shuts his mouth and nods curtly. The driver parks the SUV outside the entrance and Castiel opens his own door, knowing it’ll irritate his entire posse but not wanting to be waited on. The past year or two of sudden fame has really messed with Castiel’s head, and he constantly has the urge to escape the limelight, to get back to what he loves to do—writing, singing, playing. He shuts the car door with a slam and both of his bodyguards immediately flank him. They walk through security easily enough, a few of the workers stopping to take his picture or ask for autographs. 

“They’re not supposed to do that,” Balthazar mumbles snippily, “they’re going to make you late.”

Castiel ignores him, as he always does. His fans are one of his top priorities (only second to the music) but after ten minutes of an impromptu meet-and-greet, an attendant tugs on his sleeve, leaning into her headset and explaining that Castiel’s rehearsal segment is coming up. She takes him through the outdoor arena, heading up the back steps and entering the stage from the back. Much to Cas’ chagrin, his cup of coffee is exchanged for a bottle of water and he glares at Balthazar with an intense wave of annoyance. He knows the water will help his vocals, but it’s too damn early to face today, _ of all days_, without a caffeine boost. There seem to be a thousand people buzzing around them, other performances and their inner circles, concert workers moving equipment, organizers in khakis holding clipboards and looking very frazzled. But one person is chuckling in his direction, evidently watching the whole, having-his-coffee-stolen situation with way more enthusiasm than eight o’clock in the morning requires.

To his absolute astonishment, the laughing man is Dean Winchester. 

He looks just as good this morning as he did last night, to Castiel’s utter annoyance. He’s sporting a form-fitting pair of Levi’s and plaid button-up with various shades of browns and reds, looking like he just exited a magazine. The beefier man in the hat standing beside him must be Dean’s head of security, and there are two petite redhead women standing beside him, both chatting away at full speed.

Dean looks embarrassed to have been spotted, the laughter dying off his face immediately as he takes in the hard lines of Castiel’s pursed lips. He’s not sure what the hell sort of game Dean is trying to play, but Castiel has zero interest in playing nice with someone so dismissive and rude. He glares at him openly, taking a sip of his bottled water without blinking.

“Smile, Cassie. You’ll scare off Tim McGraw,” Balthazar whispers with a nudge. Cas tears his eyes away from his stare down with Dean to see McGraw waving him over, looking jovial, and Castiel plasters on a fake grin and tries to appear pleasant. He’s met most of these performers before at various award shows, though it’s still bizarre to be respected by pillars in the genre when Castiel grew up listening to them. Not everyone is here yet, of course, since the concert is several hours long and they’ll be rehearsing in waves throughout the day. It still feels surreal, being surrounded by a group of such talented performers, and he tries to focus on his peers instead of the impishly annoying Dean Winchester.

Which is impossible, really, because Castiel is being forced to perform a duet with him.

Almost instantly, the performers are organized by act and then debriefing with the concert director. Castiel stares down at his boots uncomfortably as he shuffles towards Dean, arms crossed and avoiding eye contact. Balthazar fills the silence between the two by loudly chatting with Dean’s manager, an incredibly well-dressed Scottish woman named Rowena. Castiel hates to admit it, but he finds both Rowena and Dean’s publicist, Charlie, to be welcoming and charming…which is unfair, honestly, because isn’t Dean anything but? The more he ignores Dean, the more Cas wants to talk to him, to bridge the gap that’s building between them. He wonders for a moment if Dean is doing the same—he keeps opening and closing his mouth, shaking his head visibly, evidently on the fence about something. Probably wondering if he wants to pull out of this concert altogether, Castiel thinks ruefully. _ He’s probably embarrassed to be sharing the stage with me. _

When the concert director, Missouri, finally comes around, Castiel sighs in relief. The sooner they can talk with her and rehearse, the faster he can head back up into his isolated cabin and spend the evening playing guitar by the fireplace. 

“Hey fellas,” Missouri greets, short and feisty with a gleaming white smile. “Have to say, I’m a big fan of you both. Dean’s a veteran around here, but we’re excited to have some fresh blood this time around.” She gives Castiel another signature smile and he can’t help it—his bad mood lessens slightly.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” he says genuinely. “It’s a wonderful cause.” Wounded Warrior is a favorite charity of the CMA, and Castiel’s always up for assisting a worthy cause.

“It is, isn’t it?” She flips through the papers on her clipboard before glancing back up at them. “I knew my two most philanthropic artists wouldn’t mind sharing the stage together. It’s unbelievable to think it’s never happened before—did you know we received three hundred thousand retweets after we announced your duet?”

“Wow,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck and seeming dazed. “That’s, uh, Twitter right?” Castiel snorts before he can stop himself. Dean looks at him on instinct, th sound catching him off-guard, but they both return their gaze to Missouri the moment their eyes meet. Castiel’s traitorous heart is pounding a mile a minute, annoyed by how green and gorgeous Dean’s eyes are.

“You’re too much,” Missouri remarks, grinning in Dean’s direction as if he’s the most adorable sight she’s ever seen. Which, yeah, Dean_ could be _ adorable if he wasn’t so rude. “So, we’ve been discussing song selection with both of your managers, and they’ve explained you’re both willing to perform just about anything as long as rehearsal goes well today. Is that still the case?”

Castiel crosses his arms and goes back to staring at the floor, but nods dimly. He’s incredibly nervous to perform not only in front of Dean, but _ with _ Dean. What if he makes a fool of himself? 

“I’m just ready to get this show on the road,” Dean says, attempting to sound casual but coming off more demanding, at least in Cas’ biased opinion.

“Great. You two are an interesting match—Dean, you’re a soulful tenor, while Castiel is more of steady bass. Paired together, we’re expecting quite the performance.” Missouri’s eyes are warm and kind and Castiel doesn’t have the heart to tell her this’ll probably be his worst performance ever. He’s too nervous, too irritated, and neither of those make for a good performance headspace. “Since the concert is a celebration of country music artists, everyone will be performing covers. Here are some of the songs we were considering for you two.”

She slides a paper off her clipboard, trying to decide whether to hand it to Castiel or Dean, since they’re separated by their managers. Castiel sighs and takes a step back, Rowena stepping to the left so he can take her spot. He’s standing so close to Dean now that he can smell his aftershave, and their forearms brush as they both reach for the list. They read silently together for a moment, the tension between them stretching on as they absorb the list in front of them.

“Uh,” Dean begins, blinking furiously and looking to the group at large, “this is some kinda joke, right?”

“I’m not following,” Missouri says politely. 

“They’re all love songs,” Castiel says, feeling a little nauseous. 

“What he said,” Dean grumbles, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. Castiel is relieved they at least agree on one thing.

“No joke here, honey. The association is making an effort to be more inclusive, so the classic ‘love song’ performance was chosen for you two instead. Isn’t it exciting?” Her smile begins to falter as she takes in their slack-jawed expression. “You don’t seem too happy.”

Dean chuckles without a trace of humor and pinches the bridge of his nose. “No offense, ma’am—” Castiel very pointedly ignores how endearing Dean’s southern accent is, “—but I’m not sure we’re down for being the CMA’s latest publicity stunt.”

Cas isn’t sure how he’s being included in the _ we _of that sentence. As uncomfortable as he feels, he feels the need to play Devil’s advocate. “I’m not entirely comfortable with it either, but it would be excellent representation for the LGBTQ community,” he comments evenly. 

Dean whips his head around. “Seriously?” 

He flails the paper again and Castiel reads it again—yeah, these song choices really are incredibly saccarchine. “When You Say Nothing at All” by Alison Krauss and “I Cross My Heart” by George Strait are at the top of the list. 

“You’re cool with parading around as the token ‘gay’ country artists with this as the freaking set list?”

Castiel snatches the paper away tersely, since Dean keeps annoyingly fluttering it in front of his face. “No, but surely we can compromise and find a more subtle selection.” He looks back over at concert director. “Right, Missouri?”

She looks relieved that Castiel is advocating on her behalf, though Cas wonders if he’s just being argumentative as a way to contest Dean. He agrees with Dean but he also sees Missouri’s perspective, too, and he’s feeling conflicted about how to handle this.

“Of course,” she says softly. “How about we work together to find a song you’re both comfortable with?”

That proves more difficult of a feat than anyone expected. As they head onto the stage, Dean and Castiel both reaching for their instruments that’ve been setup and tuned, it hits Cas all over again that he’s going to have to play music with Dean. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal—he’s played with dozens of people by now, friends and professionals and famous performers—but there’s something intimate about a two-person collaboration, identifying strengths and weaknesses in an open way in order to produce a balanced duet. They have a full band behind them, of course, but this is all about combining Dean and Castiel’s sound into something pleasing.

Unfortunately for the first hour, their rehearsal is anything _ but. _

Everything is so disastrously terrible that Castiel hopes he’ll look back on it and laugh. At the moment, though, he’s just fumbling around like a deer caught in the headlights. First they try Dean’s suggestion: a Merle Haggard tune called “My Favorite Memory.” It’s still an immensely romantic song, but singing it is perhaps the most ironic circumstance Castiel has ever been in, considering the lyrics are the exact opposite of his and Dean’s real-life situation: 

_ First time we met is a favorite memory of mine _

_ They say time changes all it pertains to _

_ but your memory is stronger than time _

_ I guess everything does change except what you choose to recall _

_ There's a million good daydreams to dream on _

_ but baby, you are my favorite memory of all_

It’s a song Dean knows well but Castiel is unfamiliar with it, so he can’t land the harmony correctly. It doesn’t help that Dean varies up the speed ever time he plays it, usually leading too fast, until Castiel finally stops in the middle and snaps, “Could you pick a reasonable tempo, please?”

“Sorry I can’t play slower,” Dean snipes back sarcastically, and Castiel rolls his eyes, not caring if Dean notices. 

“This isn’t working,” Castiel declares loudly, not only to Dean but Missouri, Balthazar, and Dean’s entire group. “We need to try something else.” 

The sleeves of his cardigan are long and unruly, getting in the way of the strings, and Dean must notice, because he mutters, “Maybe if you took off your big hipster sweater, you could keep up.”

Anger flashes through Castiel, making his hands shake. “Maybe if you knew what you were doing, I could follow your lead.” He slips the guitar strap off his back, cradling the instrument back into the stand as carefully as possible for how angry he is, rolls up the sleeves of his sweater, and stomps off to take five. Backstage he’s seething, ignoring everything Balthazar is recommending about being friendlier, about not having such a short fuse, because who is _ he _ to judge Castiel? He’s seen his manager berate an assistant because his pressed juice came back room-temp. Dean Winchester is impossible, and there’s no way Castiel can work with someone like that.

“Mind if I snag you for a minute?” Charlie, Dean’s publicist, says softly. Grateful to have Balathazar’s unhelpful advice interrupted, even if it is by someone’s on Dean’s payroll, he nods and follows her. She leads them behind a small brick building where the restrooms are housed. It’s a quiet reprieve from the chaos of the rehearsal stage, and Castiel welcomes the break. 

“I know you don’t know me,” she begins, and Castiel feels a humongous _ but _coming on, “but is there anything I can do to help the situation?”

Castiel decides to play dumb for the moment and see how Dean’s publicist is going to explain the current mess they’re in. “What situation?” he asks blankly. 

“The one between you and Dean,” she says, not attempting to sidestep the issue in a way that Castiel finds respectful. He always prefer solving problems with people who put all their cards on the table, so he decides to be equally honest.

“Not sure if you can,” he bites out bitterly. “Did he tell you what he said to me? Last night at the bar?”

Charlie crosses her arms, looking slightly frightful. “Not really. But I asked him if he made an ass of himself, and he didn’t disagree.”

Castiel can’t help it—his eyes widen. “Hmm,” he says noncommittally, not wanting to give Dean the benefit of the doubt just yet. “Well, unfortunately for Dean, that’s not an inaccurate assessment.”

Charlie snorts a little. “You’re funny. Dean would like you.”

Castiel’s insides flip a little, but he crosses his arms, searching for his resolve. “I think that ship has sailed,” he replies stubbornly. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Charlie threads a hand through her hair, biting her lip and looking thoughtful. Finally, she mutters, “If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell a soul?”

“That’s a lot to ask of someone you just met,” Castiel points out, stalling. He isn’t sure what Charlie is about to divulge, but if it has to do with Dean, he’s desperate to understand the core of the tension between them. “But yes.”

She closes her eyes and opens them again, breathing through her nose. “Dean has a crush on you,” she drops, casual as can be. Before Castiel can pick his jaw up off the floor, though, she adds, “Not that he realizes that, the idiot.”

Castiel exhales with a huffed laugh, looking away in disbelief. This is maybe the weirdest way a publicist has ever tried to manipulate him, and it stings worse than he imagined it could. “This is elaborate…maybe the best ploy I’ve seen, I’ll give you that.”

“Huh?” Charlie asks, confusion painted on her features. Castiel sighs, feeling immensely tired all of a sudden.

“How could you know something like that without Dean telling you?” 

“Uh, because Dean’s been my best friend for a decade,” Charlie answers defensively. “And the only person who knows Dean better than me is his brother, and after what happened last night, he and I both agree that Dean’s got a big ol’ boner for you, dude. Nobody gets that irrationally mad or obsessed with someone unless they’re covering up some major feelings.”

“That’s absurd,” Castiel replies evenly. He’s trying his damndest to keep his own emotions at bay, a mixture of excited adrenaline and cautious suspicion. This couldn’t be, this can’t be…

Charlie throws up her hands, clamping her mouth shut. “Believe me, don’t me believe, whatever. But I’m telling you, Dean is a really good guy who had too much whiskey last night and put his foot in his mouth because he _ likes _ you—”

“There’s absolutely no—”

“And now he regrets it. Seriously, he’s miserable. So just, I dunno, cut him some slack. Please?”

Castiel wants to point out that Dean isn’t giving him any slack, but he supposes being the bigger person means not pointing this out. “He’s miserable?”

“Totally. I haven’t seen him this nervous for a performance since we were high schoolers doing a crappy rendition of _ Romeo and Juliet_.”

Despite himself, Castiel smiles minutely, imagining a teenage Dean wearing tights and an outrageously fluffy hat. “Dean can act?”

“Nope,” Charlie says with an amused scoff. “Not one bit. Pretty sure he would die from embarrassment if that video was ever leaked. Luckily only _ I _have a copy.”

“I see.” She has such a mischievous glint in her eye that Castiel can’t help but ask, “Exactly how much of your friendship with Dean is built off of blackmail?”

Charlie laughs, loud and genuine, and claps him on the back. “Damn, I hope Dean gets his head out of his ass.” She grins and starts walking back towards the stage. “I’d like to keep you around.”

***

Dean is still fuming silently when Castiel returns. He’s looking just as ridiculous in that slouchy sweater and tight pants, an outfit that Dean finds both baffling and weirdly cute. Not that he would ever admit that last thing, ‘cause fuck, Castiel’s been nothing but standoffish and ill-tempered since he got here. It’s true, Dean fucked up first by being rude last night. But he had come to rehearsal with the hope to bury the hatchet, to apologize and move on. That’s completely off the table, obviously, because Novak hates his freaking guts. _ Good. _Whatever sass Castiel can dish out, Dean can give back to him tenfold. 

“Finished pouting?” Dean grumbles, and Castiel’s otherwise neutral expression transfers into a scowl.

“Depends,” Castiel snipes back, “are you done being an assbutt?”

“A…_what _?”

Castiel flushes bright red. “You heard me.”

Dean laughs unexpectedly, burying his head in his hands. “Dude, nobody says shit like that.”

“The point of me insulting you wasn’t for you to find it pleasing, Dean,” Castiel argues, voice laced with exasperation.

“Boys, not to interrupt another fascinating little tête-à-tête prematurely,” Rowena calls sardonically, staying at the bottom of the stage and cupping her hands around her mouth, “but I’d like to point out that this isn’t the best use of everyone’s time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, picking his guitar back up and messing with the tuning pegs just to keep his hands busy. “Fine, my song didn’t work out. What’s your pick, chuckles?”

Castiel is looking at him blankly, a long pause filling the space between them, before recognition finally dawns. “Wait—me? I’m ‘chuckles’?” He points at the center of his chest as if the idea is absolute lunacy. 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re such a hoot,” Dean mutters. “C’mon, let’s just sing something already.”

Castiel looks as if he’s thinking way too fucking hard about this before saying, “What about ‘Buddy’ by Willie Nelson?”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, not entirely hating that choice, but Charlie shakes her head softly.

“Not exactly a love song,” she points out. 

Castiel bites his lip as he thinks, definitely _ not _in a distracting way that Dean can’t look away from. Nope. 

“What about ‘Whiskey Lullaby’?”

“Uh, the one where they break up and then commit suicide? Fuck no. Jesus,” Dean scoffs, Castiel’s lips set in a hard line. “Do you even like love songs?”

It’s a rhetorical question, at least coming from Dean. He knows all of Castiel’s music, has downloaded all of his albums. He writes mostly about life, loss, and a slew of other depressing stuff that Dean wouldn’t admit to most people that he likes thinking about on occasion.

“Not particularly,” Castiel says emphatically. When Dean only glares at him, he adds, “Fine. Can I see the list again?”

Dean sighs and frees his hands, the guitar swaying on the strap. He pulls the folded-up list from his back pocket and presents it to Castiel with flourish, as if it’s a secret note between them. Castiel eyes him warily, but there’s the smallest of smiles in the corner of his mouth that Dean wishes he could see more of. 

“I wouldn’t mind trying some Dolly Parton and Ricky Van Shelton,” Castiel says, almost conversationally. Dean shakes his head.

“That song is all about having babies and sitting in rocking chairs,” he says disdainfully, and Castiel chuckles quietly. 

“Okay, fair point.” He squints harder. “‘It’s Your Love’?”

“No way. Number one, Tim and Faith are here, and it’s awkward as hell to cover people’s songs right in front of them. Number two, that would mean I’m singing the girl part, so…uh, no thanks.”

“I thought you were more secure in your masculinity, Dean. Apparently I was wrong.” Dean opens and closes his mouth, red-faced and flushed, with no obvious retort. Castiel smirks, looking happy to have finally stumped him.

“And, to reply to your first point, I think it could be fun,” Castiel says with a shrug. “It’s a compliment to the original artist, isn’t it?”

“I dunno, man,” Dean mumbles, appearing to have regained some of his facilities, thank god. “Seems risky.”

Castiel looks like he’s debating something, eyes darting around between the song list and his guitar. Finally, he folds the paper up and slips it into his sweater pocket before sliding his acoustic guitar strap back over his shoulder.

“What’re you doin’?” Dean asks, curious and a little weary.

“Proving a point,” Castiel says. He tunes up before strumming some experimental chords, a familiar combination that Dean thinks he recognizes, and then—Castiel begins to sing. 

Castiel begins to sing and Dean’s entire world is upside down. 

_ Wandering in the dark _

_ Battling from the start _

_ When will we escape purgatory? _

_ The grief of life lost _

_ A mistake with high cost _

_ When will we escape purgatory? _

_ A battle of wills _

_ A monster that kills _

_ When will we escape purgatory? _

Time stops for a moment. Dean’s skin is raised with goosebumps, his breath lodged in his throat. Castiel is singing one of Dean’s songs, a forgotten track from his first album, one that he never plays at shows because it’s too personal, too dark. It’s been years since he’s even thought about that song, but suddenly he’s transported back to the night before his dad was admitted into rehab again—his alcoholism at its breaking point—and Dean hadn’t been sure if his dad would survive the fight. He hated being in the in-between state, constantly waiting for the bottom to drop. 

Thankfully, his dad’s third attempt was successful and he’s been clean for five years now. Even so, hearing his words sung in Castiel’s gorgeously deep bass, voice shaking with vulnerability, hits Dean right in the gut. Castiel maintains eye contact with him during the whole song, never flinching away from the emotion on Dean’s face. Somehow, he’s forgotten that the stage is buzzing with people and onlookers. He’s simply mesmerized by Castiel, by the husky depth of his voice, the endless blue of his eyes, the careful and measured way his fingers touch the frets. He finishes the song out with a slow fading G chord and Dean can’t believe it, but his eyes are watering a little—what the hell is happening to him?

Before he’s quite decided what to do next, he’s putting his guitar down and walking off stage. He takes the steps two at a time, ignoring his name being called, embarrassed as fuck that Castiel’s cover actually brought him to _ tears. _He spots a semi-abandoned tree and decides it’s a good a spot as any to hide out. Jesus, he is so messed up today, he has no freaking hope of pulling it together—

“Dean,” Castiel shouts. “Dean, please wait—”

He feels a hand grasping his upper arm, spinning him around. Castiel’s face is open, his eyes large and worried, and Dean can’t believe he wants to cry on this guy’s shoulder when he was arguing with him not ten minutes ago. 

“Uh, sorry, didn’t mean to run off like that. Just needed a minute,” he mumbles lamely. He wants Castiel to go and let him sulk in peace, but a much larger part of him wants Castiel to stay.

“It’s okay,” Castiel whispers, his hand still on Dean’s arm. “I’m sorry I did that. I just love that song, but I shouldn’t have…”

“You love that song?” Dean’s voice shakes a little, and he can’t help thinking how pathetic he sounds.

“Of course I do. Dean, I…”

“Yeah?”

“I love all of your music,” Castiel admits softly.

“Oh,” Dean says back, because he’s so dumbstruck that he can barely move. “Well, uh, you too. You’re really good, man. And I’m not just saying that ‘cause you covered my song and made me wanna cry like a fucking baby.”

Castiel chuckles warmly, smiling in Dean’s direction, and it’s like being submerged in sunlight. 

“Well, we should probably get back—”

“Listen,” Dean interrupts, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh, think we got off on the wrong foot.” He sighs, the last of his defenses draining away. “Scratch that. I got us off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry I was such a dick to you. You’re right, I really am an asshat.”

Castiel’s eyes are gleaming, and Dean doesn’t know him well enough to read all the emotions on his face, but he can’t look away. “You mean ass_ butt _?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “I mean it though. If you hate me or whatever, I get it, but it’d be awesome if you didn’t, ‘cause you’re not so bad.”

“Not so bad,” Castiel repeats lowly. There’s a long pause where Dean thinks Castiel is going to turn his back and walk away, and honestly, it’s nothing less than he deserves. Instead, he tucks his hands into his back pocket and chuckles, shaking his head. “There’s that Winchester charm I’ve heard so much about.”

Dean laughs with relief, feeling like a thousand-pound weight has just lifted off his shoulders. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

They walk back towards the stage in a companionable silence. Dean keeps wracking his brain for things to say, ways to keep the good energy growing between them, but he’s spent so long this morning insulting Castiel that it feels strange allowing himself to offer up compliments instead. One step at a time, he tells himself resolutely. 

“Oh, there they are, our prodigal sons,” Rowena says pleasantly, and Dean snorts.

“Have we worked out our differences, then?” Balthazar asks airily. Dean and Castiel exchange a glance, awkwardness pulsing between them. Dean reaches down deep for some false bravado and says, “All good, hoss.”

He can tell that Castiel’s manager doesn’t quite get the term, but he nods, seeming pacified. 

“Well, thank god,” Charlie says bluntly, breaking some of the tension, and everyone smiles a little. “While you two were off doing _ whatever you were doing_—” Dean narrows his eyes at her, not appreciating the implication when he just got Cas to stop hating him. “—the rest of us came up with a solution to your little song problem.”

“Oh?” Castiel asks, looking genuinely excited, the nerd.

“We compared the list of previous covers you’ve both done and found a song in common, which will also meet Missouri’s requirement,” Charlie says, grinning widely. “Are we awesome or what?”

“That’s…kinda genius,” Dean says appreciatively. 

The next half-hour goes much more smoothly than the first. Dean and Castiel are not only more comfortable with each other, but approve of the song choice, and they sound…well, pretty damn good together. He’s actually looking forward to tomorrow’s concert now, which is a complete one-eighty from his earlier attitude. Jesus, what a rollercoaster day. 

“Well, I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Castiel mumbles a little timidly. He’s packing up his own guitar, much to the shock of the roadies, and Dean thinks it’s endearing as hell.

“Or you could come back to my place,” Dean blurts out, horror settling into his bones the moment the words leave his mouth. Castiel looks stunned too, still hunched over his hardshell case. “Uh, I, didn’t mean—not like that—I just meant, I still feel bad about, uh, everything, and if you want to come have a beer and I could make us some food, I dunno, maybe that could be cool? No worries though, you—you probably have plans, right?”

Castiel looks annoyingly calm and a little amused by Dean’s ranting, which only makes the tips of his ears burn redder. How the hell has this guy rendered him an awkward teenage boy? He’s Dean fucking Winchester, a goddamn celebrity. He shouldn’t be this nervous.

“Okay,” Castiel says simply, and Dean’s shoulders slump down, not realizing how much tension he’d been holding between his shoulder blades. “On one condition.”

“Shoot,” Dean says, trying to sound casual.

“No whiskey,” Castiel says. Dean raises his eyebrows, so he explains, “Can’t have you going back to hating me, can I?”

Dean chuckles, trying hard not to flush red. He’s not sure why he ever hated Cas to begin with, but he’s starting to see he had the guy all wrong. 

“Deal.”


	2. Part II

Castiel stands outside the front door of Dean’s cabin feeling jittery and nervous. It’s been several hours since he had accepted the man’s invitation, and now he’s doubting himself, wondering if he made the right decision. He has no idea why Dean invited him over tonight, but this means a lot to Castiel—he’s been daydreaming about the famous Dean Winchester for as long as he can remember. He hasn’t quite figured the guy out yet, and doesn’t know what to expect on the other side of that door… 

He knocks anyways.

He expects an assistant to answer the door, but it’s flung open by Dean himself. He’s changed his clothes a little, wearing a form-fitting gray t-shirt that looks soft to the touch. His flannel from earlier is thrown over the couch, so this must be his undershirt. Just that knowledge alone has Castiel swallowing down waves of anxiety. How in the world will he be able to resist his attraction to Dean all evening long?

“Hello, Dean,” he intones deeply, and perhaps too formally. 

“Hey Cas, c’mon in,” Dean says smoothly, hand throwing the door open wide. Castiel walks through the threshold, admiring the cabin Dean’s renting for the week. It has high-vaulted ceilings and polished walnut wood, an elaborate stone fireplace, and a leather sofa large enough for an entire family to sleep on. 

“This place is incredible,” Castiel comments, and even though it’s just Dean’s rental, he looks pleased by the comment.

“Okay, right? I was floored when Charlie showed me pictures. There’s a movie theater upstairs and a _ freaking _arcade.” Dean grins broadly, and Castiel can’t help it—his good mood is contagious, and he returns the smile. Dean goes to close the door, but sees some of Cas’ security still hanging on the porch. 

“Is he coming in?” Dean asks Castiel, and Cas shakes his head. 

“He all but demanded to stay on the porch, which I find ridiculous,” Castiel says ruefully. “As if some crazed killer could track us down on this dirt road.”

“You’d be surprised,” Dean says with a chuckle, closing the front door. “Once, I had a fan pretend to be a friend of mine from high school. I went to a family dinner and she was chopping vegetables with _ my mom_.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “That’s terrifying.”

“You have no idea. My parents still aren’t used to the weirdos, I guess.” There’s a beat of silence where Castiel wants to ask more questions about Dean and his family—his upbringing, his home in Lawrence, his father’s battle with alcoholism. But these aren’t things Castiel is supposed to have any prior knowledge of, and likely wouldn’t, unless he was a fan. Rather than outing himself, he just keeps quiet, Dean shuffling his feet around until he says, “Can I get ya a beer?”

“Thought we weren’t drinking tonight,” Castiel says, mostly kidding.

“Whiskey, we’re not drinking whiskey,” Dean corrects, his tone light. “You never said anything about Margiekugel.”

“You do like to challenge the rules, don’t you?” Castiel says, and Dean’s face flushes a little, so Cas surprises himself and winks. Dean flushes even more, and Castiel begins to think that Charlie’s assessment of the situation might’ve been correct after all. But if Dean does have a crush on him, too, would that make tonight a…date…? 

“Nah, just like my free will is all,” Dean responds, ducking into the fridge and coming back with a bottled beer. He hands it to Castiel silently, the edge of the cap hitting Castiel’s sweater, invading Castiel’s personal space more than he expected. Castiel accepts the beer silently, though he embarrassingly struggles to pop off the cap. Dean watches him wrestle with it with amusement on his face before reaching into his back pocket and using the bottle opener. 

“Could’ve told me it wasn’t a twist top,” Castiel grumbles good-naturedly. 

“I coulda, but watching you try was so much more fun,” Dean grins, and Castiel rolls his eyes as Dean laughs. So far this evening isn’t at all what he expected, and Castiel has a sudden realization that he needs to stay in the moment and see where things go. If he gets stuck in his head all night, he’ll miss the opportunity to get to know Dean. 

“To free will,” he says, holding up his beer for a toast. Dean raises his eyebrows approvingly and echoes his words, and then they both take a long sip, maintaining eye contact for so long that Castiel forces his eyes down. There’s a heat between them, there always has been, but now it seems less argumentative and more…

Castiel swallows another sip, practically gulping half the beer in one go. No, he can’t let himself begin to think there’s _ more _ between them. He’s just setting himself up for disappointment if he does. 

“So,” he says, hoping he sounds conversational, “anything I can do to help?”

“What?” Dean asks, apparently lost in thought, then he notices Cas browsing around the oversized kitchen and says, “Uh, nah, it’s pretty much ready. Just gotta toss the burgers on the grill.”

Castiel beams at him with excitement. “Burgers?”

A few minutes later, Castiel follows Dean onto the back porch. The view of the mountains is breathtaking, the leaves shaded in reds and golds, and he leans against the rail and stares with awe. He can feel Dean watching him but he doesn’t turn around, not until he hears the grill cover being opened and Dean humming a little tune under his breath. He’s fiddling with the knobs, checking to make sure there’s enough gas in the tank, and Castiel watches him with absolute fascination. 

“Uh, sorta feeling like a circus animal over here, Cas,” Dean mumbles, unrolling the cling wrap off the plate of burger. Castiel tilts his head in his confusion, and Dean flutters his eyelashes, a very distracting sight indeed. “I, uh, just mean—you keep staring.”

Castiel is jolted out of his thoughts, realizing his eyes had wandered to Dean’s mouth. When had _ that _happened?

“Apologies,” he says, clearing his throat and looking away. “I just didn’t realize you were such a skilled cook.”

Dean snorts, breaking the tension in a way that makes Castiel sigh with relief. “Hardly. I can make a few things s’all, burgers being one of ‘em.”

Castiel is pretty sure that Dean is being modest, but he decides not to press the issue. “Do you cook for yourself often?”

“Whenever I’m not touring,” Dean says, the patties sizzling as he adds them to the grill. “And when I’m not on some dumb rabbit food diet.”

“I hardly think you need to go on a diet,” Castiel says, unable to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

“Tell that to my trainer,” Dean grumbles unhappily. “Pretty sure if I wasn’t in the business, I’d be sportin’ a beer belly, sitting fat and happy on a porch swing somewhere.”

“Now there’s a pretty picture,” Castiel says, half-teasing and half-serious. 

“You callin’ me pretty?” Dean asks, somewhat flirtily, and Castiel has to remind himself that Dean Winchester is a known and avid flirt. He takes a deep breath, deciding to ignore the question completely.

“You should do more of what you want, Dean. Life is too short to be controlled by society’s concepts of beauty.”

“Easy for you to say,” Dean says lowly, as if Castiel isn’t supposed to hear. Cas squirms against the railing. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, you’re all—” Dean suddenly has a spatula in his hand and is waving it in Cas’ general direction. “Looking like _ that. _S’not like you have to try to be…”

“What?” Castiel can’t tell if he’s being complimented or insulted at the moment, but he’s hoping it’s the former. 

“Handsome,” Dean says, as if the word just tumbles out against his better judgment. Their eyes meet and Castiel feels his face flush red, a sweat gathering around his collar. 

“Do you mean to say, you don’t consider yourself handsome?” Cas asks, deflecting away from Dean’s comment because he isn’t quite sure how to process it just yet. “Dean, how many times have you been on the Maxim Hot 100 list?”

“Those things are rigged,” Dean complains, ducking his head down to check on the burgers. Castiel watches him with piqued interest, trying hard to figure the guy out. Is he truly this modest, or he is trying to get Castiel to compliment him?

“You, uh, wanna go inside and grab the cheese?” Dean asks, like he’s searching for another topic that has nothing to do with how drop-dead gorgeous he is. Castiel eyes him and nods, noticing both of their beers are empty and decides to grab two fresh ones on the way back. He’s standing in the threshold of the door before he calls, “Dean?”

Dean spins around. “Yeah?”

“Not that my opinion matters, but I think you’re incredibly handsome.” 

Then Castiel turns and walks back inside, leaving Dean with a dazed look in his eyes and a blush setting on his cheeks. 

*** 

Dean feels heat rising on his cheeks, and he can’t blame the proximity of the grill. He listens to the porch door slide closed behind him and lets out a gust of air that’s half-sigh, half-chuckle, because holy hell, is Castiel _ into _him? I mean, he at least thinks Dean is attractive, which is more than he’d been hoping for. Dean never considered Cas as an option, really, since he’d been such a dick to him last night. He figured tonight they’d become friends, at best, enough so that tomorrow’s performance won’t be uncomfortable. 

But now his hopes are much, much higher. 

Cas comes back holding the package of sliced cheese and passes Dean a freshly open beer. “Thanks,” he says genuinely, taking the beer in-hand and taking a long sip. He’s surprised by Castiel’s thoughtfulness, but he supposes there’s a lot about the guy he can’t learn from a wikipedia page. 

“Is anyone else joining us?” Castiel asks nonchalantly, still standing by the grill as Dean carefully lays cheese on the patties. He freezes, wondering if he should’ve invited Sam or Charlie or Rowena to supper—hell, even Balthazar—’cause the last thing he wants to do is make Cas feel awkward. Like he’s forcing him into a date or something.

“Uh, I hadn’t invited anyone else,” he confesses, rubbing his hands together then reaching for his spatula. “But, y’know, I can call some people up. Benny’s in the cabin next door, and Charlie’s just down the road. Sam has a hotel room in Pigeon Forge, but he can be here in twenty minutes or less—”

“Dean.” Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, quieting him. “That’s fine, I was just checking. I don’t mind it being just us.”

“Yeah?” Dean knows he sounds a little insecure, but he can’t seem to help it. He’s totally out of his depth here. 

“Yeah.” Castiel gives him a warm smile. “I look forward to getting to know you.”

That shouldn’t put butterflies in Dean’s stomach. It’s a totally platonic thing to say to someone you just met, but Dean’s brain is working overtime today it seems. “Cool, well, uh…ditto. I guess.”

They eat on the patio, on a small wooden table with two chairs. Dean’s made so much food that they have to go into the kitchen and bring it back, their plates filled with potato salad and baked beans, cheeseburgers barely fitting on the ceramic plates. 

“You made all this?” Castiel asks, amazed, as he eats another forkful of potato salad. “When did you have the time?”

Dean doesn’t want to admit that they immediately stopped by the grocery store after rehearsal, and he’s been more or less prepping ever since. “S’nothing, just some stuff I had lying around.”

Castiel looks amused, like he might call Dean on his bullshit, but then he picks up his burger and his eyes roll into the back of his head. He chews reverently, eyes closed with a little ketchup at the corner of his mouth, and Dean thinks this man eating anything in his vicinity should be illegal. He’s pretty much on the verge of popping a boner right the hell now.

“This is amazing,” Castiel says finally, after swallowing. “Dean, you have a gift.”

Dean laughs. “It’s just a burger, Cas,” he says humbly, taking a bite himself. Damn, that is delicious.

“I like the nickname, by the way,” Castiel says, taking a long sip of his beer. “Balthazar calls me ‘Cassie’ but it’s never been my favorite.”

“Understandably,” Dean says, making a face. “You’re much more of a Cas.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow challengingly. “How would you know? You barely know me.”

“I just met you, yeah. Don’t mean I don’t know you,” Dean argues, not sure how much of his hand he’s willing to play here. Castiel just looks back at him, the need for an explanation clear on his face, so Dean sighs and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Fine. You were born in New York City, went to a fancy ass prep school, then an equally fancy college. Your dad is a famous novelist, your mom’s some corporate queen, and your brother owns casinos in Las Vegas. You met your agent three years ago at a party in the Hamptons, then were introduced to Balthazar, and the rest is history. Sometimes you date Meg Masters, that sexy but super unhinged model, who’s not really good enough for you in my opinion.” Castiel’s eyes are wide and he’s regarding Dean with something like shock and awe. “How’d I do, teach?”

“Strangely well,” Castiel comments evenly, looking a little unhappy. “I suppose I sound pretty insufferable when you put it together like that.”

Even though Dean had that same opinion literally twenty-four hours ago, he’s horrified to hear Castiel talk about himself like that now. “What? No! That’s not what I was trying to…”

“It’s okay. I know I’m quite privileged, and am trying to use that privilege to instill real good into the world. It’s harder than I imagined, but worth it.” He takes another large bite and Dean feels proud to notice that his plate is nearly clean. “There are many things that my wikipedia page leaves out, though.”

“Like?”

“Like Meg and I are finished,” Castiel says smoothly. “She apparently sold my home address and gate code to a tabloid, who snapped photos of me just out of the shower. It took more money than I’d care to acknowledge to make the photos disappear, and I finally realized that I can’t trust her. I mailed all her belongings back six months ago.”

Dean tries to mask his emotions during this story, but it’s difficult, considering all the information he just learned. There are photos out there of Cas wearing _ just _a towel? He’s single? His heart is beating rapidly at both developments, but focuses in on his self-righteous indignation instead. “Well, good fucking riddance. I’m sorry you had to go through that, man.”

Castiel smiles a little sadly and shrugs. “You might find this unbelievable, but I never wanted to be famous.” He licks his fork and Dean has to look away, holy crap, what is this guy doing to him? 

“Uh, yeah, a little,” Dean admits with a chuckle. “You’re kinda one of the most famous people ever right now.”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” Castiel begins carefully, “but that was never my intention. I wanted to leave the world of my family as soon as I could.”

“What could be so bad, though? Swanky yacht parties? Chocolates in your pillow every night?”

“I didn’t have chocolates on my—oh, you’re joking,” Castiel says, and Dean laughs softly. “Well, I suppose there were moments I enjoyed myself. But most days I loathed all the vapid, wealthy people rubbing elbows with my parents, all the parties they dragged me to, the pretentious boarding school where I was shipped off each year. I was surrounded by inauthentic people for most of my life.”

Dean frowns, throwing his napkin over his empty plate, and pats his full stomach. “Yeah, shit, that makes about as much sense as tits on a bull.”

Castiel snorts, shaking his head. “I love the way you speak, Dean. So colorful, yet concise.”

Dean shakes his head, refusing to blush again. “Yeah, well, this mouth gets me into trouble, believe me.”

“I’ve seen it firsthand,” Castiel says, though he’s smiling. His voice is softer when he says, “I’m glad both of our first impressions of each other were wrong.”

“Me too,” Dean says, scrubbing a hand against his face and hiding back a grin. “So, when did you start playing music?”

“I played violin and classical guitar at a very early age, which my mother approved of. Then went to New England Conservatory of Music, which she considered frivolous and _ dis_approved of, but I could access a small portion of my trust fund when I turned eighteen, so I paid for it myself.”

“Shit, that’s cool. How’d that go? You can’t exactly get a degree in country music.” Dean lowers his head, realizing he doesn’t know shit about college having never gone, then adds, “Uh, right?”

“Right,” Castiel agrees, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “I barely lasted a semester before I dropped out. I moved to Nashville to try and find an agent, and my parents were horrified, but figured it was a phase. I played at hundreds of open mic nights, dozens of street corners. I was visiting Gabriel two years later at his insistence when, as you mentioned, I met an agent at a party in the Hampton’s, completely surreptitiously, of course. He was only interested because of my family name, but once I played for him, he seemed more inclined to help me launch my career.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, nodding appreciatively. He loves learning more about Cas’ background—he’s less of a mystery and more of a real person. “You like Nashville?”

Castiel nods, draining the last of his beer.

“Hold that thought,” Dean instructs, standing to clear their plates and empty bottles. 

“Oh, let me—”

“Nope, sit your ass down, you’re my guest,” Dean says with a grin, and Castiel rolls his eyes but obliges. Dean busies himself with the cleanup, not only on the patio table but in the kitchen. A few minutes later he realizes he’s lost track of Cas, and pads around the wrap-around until he finds him wandering around the screened-in portion of the porch.

“You have a…hot tub?” Castiel asks, though it shouldn’t be a question. 

“Ain’t much else it could be, huh?” Dean says cheekily, patting the cover appreciatively. “Been meaning to try it out.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow and Dean’s brain short-circuits. “We could, uh…”

“I don’t have my swim trunks,” Castiel says regretfully. He takes a sudden step closer, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He feels light fingertips hovering over his cheek, caressing his skin. He’s not sure what’s about to happen, but his eyelids flutter closed, so totally on-board for whatever Cas wants or needs—

“Eyelash,” Castiel says, his voice a deep rumble, and Dean forces his eyes back open to see Castiel’s thumb and forefinger pinched together. He chuckles in embarrassment, scratching the back of his neck. Did he really think Cas would kiss him, or _ want _ to be kissed by him? Has he lost his mind?

“I could borrow a pair of yours,” Castiel whispers, and it takes Dean a full ten seconds to remember they’re talking about swim trunks. Jesus. 

“Y-yeah, you could, uh, do that. Definitely.” 

Castiel follows him through the cabin as he heads upstairs, going into the master bedroom with the king-sized bed and spacious jacuzzi tub. It’s a room meant for a couple to enjoy, and Dean tries not to focus on how many different spots there are for him to crowd against Cas and push their bodies together and—

“How’s your book?” Castiel asks, fingers brushing the Kurt Vonnegut book on the bedside table. Despite his nerves at whatever is developing between them, Dean smiles brightly.

“Awesome. I’ve read it before, though. Vonnegut’s my favorite.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever read him,” Castiel admits, and Dean stops rifling through his suitcase long enough to look up and give Cas a look.

“Dude, you _ have _ to. Just…trust me.” 

He pulls out his pair of standard swim trunks, red and a little tight, and passes Cas his back-up pair. He’s not sure his clothes will fit Cas perfectly—he’s slim but his thighs and waist are sturdy and thick—but it’ll be good enough for one night. He hands Cas the suit, mumbling something about going upstairs to change and meeting Cas at the hot tub. He takes the staircase down two at a time, stopping in the half-bath to change, then grabs towels and more beer. Thanks to the two burgers he scarfed down, he’s not even feeling a bit tipsy from his previous drinks. He’s gonna need a little liquid courage if he’s gonna be alone in a hot tub with a half-naked Castiel.

He’s not sure how, but the sky is already turning a shade of dark blue, the autumn air chilly now that the sun’s set. He takes the cover off the hot tub and fiddles with the settings, turning the jets on and programing the temperature well over a hundred degrees. There are a few different interior light options, but they’re neon-colored and a little flashy, so Dean just keeps the light off for now. There’s a porch light a few yards away casting enough of a glow, and he climbs inside, sighing as soon as he enters the warm water.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself,” Castiel comments, sliding the porch door behind him. Dean tries not to gape, but holy hell, Castiel is doing things to those swim trunks that should be downright illegal. His stomach is toned, his hips wide and well-muscled, and Dean’s not sure how he ended up here but he’s thanking his lucky stars that he _ is_.

“Not all I’m enjoying,” Dean says shamelessly, eyeing Castiel’s bare torso with an outrageous wink. He’s being flirtatious to an absurd degree, he knows, but it’s the only way to show he’s interested without putting too many feelings on the line. If he keeps things light, maybe he won’t be disappointed if Cas turns him down.

Castiel chuckles, shaking his head. He steps up the outside ladder steps and swinging his leg around. There’s plenty of space in the hot tub—it can technically sit six—but Castiel sits catty-corner to Dean, their knees touching. 

He sighs, leaning further into the jets. “This is amazing, Dean.”

Dean hums in agreement, closing his eyes. “Your idea. Fuck, these jets are doing god’s work.”

There’s a forceful stream of water on his lower back and his shoulders, and he scoots a little to the left, and then—

“Woah!” he exclaims in surprise, floating back down to his original perch. As good as it feels to have a jet pushing water against his ass crack, that’s not the kind of stimulation he needs right now with Cas sitting right beside him. Not unless Cas is ready to bend him over, shove his dick in, and fuck him into oblivion. 

“What?” Castiel asks innocently, though he’s smirking as if he already knows somehow, the bastard. 

“Nothing. Just, uh, those are some powerful jets.” There’s a pause that Dean thinks might turn awkward, but then Castiel is chuckling and reaching his arm behind Dean’s shoulder. For a split second Dean thinks he might be putting his arm around him, but then he reaches for the beer tucked behind Dean’s head. 

“Is that a foreign feeling for you, Dean?” Castiel asks without a shred of embarrassment, and Dean about chokes on his beer. 

“Dude, you can’t just…”

“I can’t what?”

Dean glares at him, his heart pounding wildly. “Ask if a guy pitches or catches.”

“Apologies,” Castiel says mildly, though the corners of his mouth are still raised. “I don’t drink often—perhaps these beers have gone to my head.”

“No, it’s cool, I’m…” Dean swallows, takes a deep breath, and tells himself _ fuck it. _Maybe Cas has a personal interest in the answer. “I’m a switch, but I, uh, mostly bottom.”

Castiel nods nonchalantly, steam rising and swirling around Castiel’s collarbones, his cheeks flushed. “I figured.”

Dean snorts, figuring this is the weirdest and most honest sex conversation he’s ever had with someone he’s not actively having sex with. “Fuck you,” he laughs.

“From your perspective, Dean, wouldn’t it be ‘fuck me’?” Castiel deadpans, somehow with a straight fucking face, and Dean’s laughter is punched out of his gut. 

He splashes Cas with a large wave of warm water, hitting his chest and chin, and Castiel splashes him back with a mischievous grin. Before long, they’ve abandoned their beers on the edge of the tub and begin rough-housing recklessly, water cascading off the sides as they flail around. Dean gets water in his eyes, his feet slipping around the bottom, and feels weightless when Castiel grabs him by the ass and manhandles him closer. Suddenly this whole thing seems a lot less funny and a lot more sexy, and he doesn’t struggle out of Cas’ grip one bit, but throws his arms around his neck and leans in. Laughter dies on both their lips, smiles turning to something more feral, more desperate and wanting. Dean wants to memorize everything about Cas in this moment—the glow of his eyes in the near darkness, the feeling of his hands framing Dean’s thighs, the gusts of cold air between them as they share the same air.

Dean rubs his hips back experimentally, wondering what the friction might feel like, and is overcome with lust when he feels Cas’ hard cock rub against his ass check. He lets out a breathy moan totally by accident, and Castiel hands grip him tighter, traveling up his bare sides. “Dean…” 

Dean tilts his forehead down against Cas’ and ruts against him again, and they both moan this time, Dean’s erection prominently rubbing against Castiel’s stomach. “Cas, is this…?”

Castiel’s hands come up to Dean’s face, wet hands dripping water on Dean’s cheeks, and he leans in to kiss him. Dean doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move, because _ Jesus Christ _ this is happening, he’s about to hook up with Castiel Novak, who he’s been thinking about for way too long—

Then Dean hears a loud, pronounced knock on the front door and his head slumps forward, head landing on Castiel’s shoulder.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles out, and Castiel chuckles beneath him. “I’ll get that, but just, uh, don’t go anywhere, okay?”

He stumbles out of the hot tub rather gracelessly, trying to obscure his painful erection even though Cas is beyond aware of it. He ties a towel to his waist and pads inside, the knocking louder the closer he gets. 

“I hear ya, jeez, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he grouses, ready to rip his unwelcome guest a new asshole. When he throws the door open, though, he sees Cas’ bodyguard standing there, looking serious and grim. 

“There are some paparazzi outside, sir,” he says, forcing his way inside. Sure enough, Dean sees the flash of a camera at the bottom of the hill. “I’ve already called your head of security, but I’m recommending Mister Novak come back with me now.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, slamming the door behind him. He’s shivering now in the air conditioning, and if Cas has to leave now, all he wants is to put on a pair of sweatpants and jerk off to what could’ve been. Then sleep until next week, ‘cause how is he supposed to be on live television with Cas tomorrow after what _ almost _happened ten seconds ago in the hot tub?

The bodyguard moves past him, searching for Cas, and Dean parts the curtains and glares down at the window. He can see Benny already walking up the driveway, a cellphone to his ear. Dean groans, his plans for the evening officially ruined.

Sometimes he really, really hates being famous.

***

Castiel is still a little tipsy, but sobering up quickly, as he’s shepherded out of Dean’s cabin. He gives a sad, awkward wave to Dean as he goes, mumbling something about seeing him tomorrow. He’s already changed back into his clothes, slinking his borrowed swim trunks against Dean’s outrageously big bathtub to drip dry. His skin is still wet though, a strangely comforting thought as he’s driven back to his own cabin in a daze, because he needs the reminder that this night did happen. He had an aroused, gorgeously turned-on Dean Winchester in his lap, and they were leaning in for their first kiss when their evening had prematurely ended. 

He hopes Dean is safe tonight, that Benny will provide enough security to protect his privacy and wellbeing. Castiel poses the question to his bodyguard, who informs him that Benny had called in local backup and police, and now Dean’s porch is surrounded by security. Good, Castiel thinks dimly, wishing he had the foresight to ask Dean for his phone number. Now he has to sit and stew for nearly a whole day, just imaging how Dean might be processing the events of the evening. He had never expected for things to escalate so quickly, but if he’s telling the truth, he doesn’t regret it. 

At his own cabin, he takes a shower and strokes himself back to hardness, remembering the way Dean’s ass had rutted against his cock, his hands wrapped tightly on Castiel’s neck, his pupils beginning to dilate. And the sounds he had made, the breathy little moans, the panted breath, _ oh god_—

Castiel slows his strokes as he comes all over the shower floor, feeling weightless and sleepy but not quite satisfied. His hand is a poor substitute when he was so close to experiencing the real thing, not just with anyone, but with someone he’s been fantasizing about for years. Coupled with the attentive way Dean had asked about his life, the delicious cooking and thoughtful hosting, all the blushing and flirting—well, if that was a date, it was the best date Castiel’s had in years. All he can hope is that last night wasn’t a one-time offer, a way for Dean to blow off steam after they’ve been at odds. It feels peculiarly _ big_, whatever is developing between them, but it’s possible that Castiel is just projecting his own feelings onto the situation. 

He sighs, slipping on his pajamas and settling in between the crisp cotton sheets. He needs to rest well, because tomorrow—tomorrow may well change everything. 

***

Castiel arrives at the convention center a bundle of nerves. Balthazar keeps giving him quizzical looks, but doesn’t probe into what Castiel’s night had entailed, which makes Cas immensely thankful. He doesn’t want to discuss Dean with anyone just yet, in case he jinxes himself. Instead, he just keeps busy all day messing around on his guitar, waiting for the early evening to come and the concert to begin.

Unlike yesterday, the place is an absolute madhouse, the concert only a few minutes from beginning. Castiel doesn’t go on for a while longer, which is why he’s unconcerned by the late hour. He’s mobbed by fans again on the way inside, but he ignores his manager’s eyerolls and speaks to everyone who calls him by name. By the time he makes it backstage he’s running late, and Missouri tells him in a rush that they bumped him and Dean down in the lineup to keep things running. He apologizes sheepishly and then goes to find Dean, hoping this means they can catch a few minutes to talk before they have to go on, but Charlie tells him Dean’s already in makeup. Castiel can’t seem to hide his disappointment, and Charlie just eyes him mischievously, unable to contain her smirk.

“I’m Sam, by the way,” a rather tall, brown-haired man announces. He’d been in a conversation with Rowena, but had been gazing at Castiel with curiosity the moment he had come over. “Dean’s brother.”

“Castiel,” he responds, shaking the man’s outstretched hand. “I heard a little about you last night. You’re a lawyer?”

Sam looks surprised at this development but recovers quickly. “Yeah, defense attorney for the State of California. My wife, Eileen, is a professor at Stanford.” 

Castiel nods appreciatively, though he’d heard some form of this information from Dean already. “That’s wonderful. From what I can tell, Dean is very proud of you both.”

Sam smiles a little, but his eyebrows still knit together, confusion painted over his features. “I’m sorry, I’m just…behind, obviously.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well…when did Dean stop being a dick to you?”

Castiel laughs, a little taken aback by Sam’s frankness. Charlie pushes her way back into the conversation. “Sorry, forgot to tell you—”

“Thanks for keeping me in the loop,” Sam grumbles good-naturedly. 

“Quiet and I’ll tell you.” She ribs Sam in the side playfully. “So Dean acted like a three-year-old at rehearsal yesterday, Castiel covered one of his songs, Dean almost cried because it was so good, then apologized for being an idiot, and at the end of the day, asked Castiel out. No idea what happened after that—” She winks in Castiel’s direction and he feels his face flush, “—but now he’s basically got the biggest heart-eyes for the guy I’ve ever seen.”

Castiel’s heart begins pounding. Could that be true? Is Dean still thinking about him in that way, even without the hot tub and the alcohol?

“Huh,” Sam says with a shrug, “so exactly what we expected to happen, then.”

Charlie laughs, and Castiel remembers her saying that she and Sam had hypothesized about Dean’s crush on him before anything had even gone down yet. Either the people in Dean’s life are very perceptive, or Dean’s emotions are easy to read, Castiel muses. Based on how expressive his face is, and how intelligent his publicist and brother seem to be, Castiel would say it’s likely both. 

The conversation ends abruptly when Castiel is dragged into makeup too, housed in a small trailer behind the stage. His heart rises when he sees that Dean is one of many artists posed in front of a large vanity, and their eyes connect in the mirror. Dean looks a little uneasy at first, but Castiel gives him a small smile and he settles back into his chair. 

“Hey, Cas,” he greets softly. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, grinning now as he takes his seat. He’s placed right beside Dean, which is ideal, but they’re in a crowded trailer full of people, which is…not.

“Close your eyes, handsome,” the makeup artist tells Dean, a large and fluffy brush in her delicate hand. Dean tears his eyes away from Cas’ reflection and obliges, and Castiel gives the attractive makeup artist a tiny glare. Pretty soon his own face is being sponged and dusted with various products, and he frowns in his chair, hating the feeling of his pores being clogged.

Dean laughs quietly and Castiel looks over, realizing it’s directed at him. “Can’t stand this stuff either,” Dean confesses. “Once, someone legit tried to put lipstick on me.” 

“I’m sure it looked good,” Castiel says neutrally, though he thinks Dean could look good in just about anything, so he’s biased. 

“Sure,” Dean says sarcastically, and Castiel just chuckles and shakes his head. There’s a pause between them, one where their faces go slack and they’re just staring, searching the other’s face for a clue—a way to proceed. Finally, Dean mumbles, “So, uh, you get back okay last night? No trouble?”

“No trouble,” Castiel says easily. “Thank you so much for your hospitality. Dinner was delicious.”

“S’fine.” Dean casts his eyes down, then glances back up at him. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk later? After, y’know…”

“After we sing a love song on national TV?” Castiel finishes, and Dean blushes, squirming in his seat. He’s so much more down-to-earth than Castiel ever expected, and it makes him want to do a number of sweet and naughty things—not necessarily in that order.

“I’d love to,” Castiel says genuinely, then pauses, wondering if it might be fun to fluster Dean a little. He drops his voice down to a whisper, thankful both of their makeup artists are having a loud gossiping session right above them. “There are few things we left unfinished last night…in the hot tub…”

Dean swallows, his eyes darting down to Castiel’s lips and back up to his eyes. “Yeah?” 

Castiel stretches his leg over, nudging Dean’s ankle softly and lingering longer than he probably should. “Yeah.”

Dean looks like he’s ready to pounce on Castiel right then, which would be a peculiar location but certainly not unwelcome. Instead, he’s ushered out of the makeup by the sudden appearance of Rowena, though not before sweeping his hand over Castiel’s shoulder and whispering, “See you up there.”

Castiel watches him retreat from his spot in the mirror, admiring the way his jeans accentuate an already amazing ass. He feels the familiar stir of arousal low in his belly, but he clears his throat and reaches for a bottle of water, trying to clear his head. He needs to get it together—he can’t be half-hard during a live concert. He’s got to keep a cool head around Dean Winchester just a little bit longer, at least. 

The next few minutes pass in a blur of hands—hands painting makeup on his face, hands ushering him up and backstage, hands passing him his tuned acoustic guitar. Then he’s placed beside Dean in a large doorway, and a woman with a clipboard and a headset says, “You’re on in two.”

Castiel feels the usual flutter of nerves, typical before any performance. Dean nudges his elbow and gives him a crooked smile.

“We got this,” he says confidently, and Castiel returns the smile with less gusto.

“You’ve been performing a lot longer than me, Dean,” Castiel reminds him, shaking his hands out with excess energy. 

“You callin’ me old?” Dean jokes, feigning offense. He _ is _ older than Castiel technically, but only by a year or two, but Castiel just rolls his eyes. Dean leans in then, his expression focused, lips dangerously close to Castiel’s ear, and whispers, “Tonight, feel free to call me anything you want.”

Castiel exhales shakily and tries not to shiver. Dean pulls away slowly but hovers, as if he’s going to kiss him right here, right now, and Castiel leans in and—

“You’re on!” Clipboard Lady announces loudly, and Castiel exhales in frustration and Dean lets out a nervous laugh.

“You did that on purpose,” Castiel says grumpily, and Dean smirks but doesn’t answer as they saunter out onto the stage. There’s an immediate eruption of applause, the audience packed in every seat, the sun setting low behind them. Castiel feels overwhelmed by it instantly, pressing into his ear piece to make sure the connection is still stable. They have a few minutes of introduction they can give, though they haven’t planned anything specific. Dean steps up to the microphone on the left, Castiel on the right, and look at each other and smile. Their mic stands are situated close to each other, and they lean into each other’s personal space, the sort of distance (or lack thereof) required for a love song.

They’re really about to do this. 

“What’s up, Gatlinburg?” Dean asks into his mic, all triumphant excitement. Even though it’s not an original line, the crowd is enticed by it, clapping and hollering with enthusiasm. “I gotta say, there’s nothing better than helping a charity I believe in, but gettin’ to perform with this guy is the icing on the cake. Castiel Novak is pretty amazing, am I right?”

There’s equally loud applause and Castiel flushes, looking at Dean with awe and admiration on his face. “The honor is mine, Dean.” That sounds too vague and impersonal, though, so Castiel adds, “I never told you this, but when I was still just another country artist struggling to make it in Nashville, I used to dream about sharing the stage with you.”

It’s much too honest of a thing to say on national TV, but the expression on Dean’s face is worth every ounce of embarrassment he might feel. He steps back from the microphone and calls out, “You’re about to get your wish, sweetheart.”

Castiel just beams at him, feeling significantly less anxious on the stage with Dean by his side. “Should we tell them what we plan to sing?”

“I doubt they’ve ever even heard of it,” Castiel says sarcastically.

“Yeah, true. In that case, you oughta tell them, Cas.”

Castiel preens under the nickname, thinking that even if he and Dean don’t work out, he’ll have a live recording to rewatch of Dean flirting with him onstage. God, he’ll cherish it forever. 

“Does anyone know ‘Tennessee Whiskey’?” Castiel asks mildly, and the crowd reacts just as they expect—standing, cheering, shouting. This song has been around for decades, but Chris Stapleton recently made it popular again. Castiel and Dean both smile giddily, and then, Dean plays the first chord. Castiel adjusts his guitar, checks the mic briefly, and then joins in. 

Luckily there’s nothing complex about the intro, so he can stare his fill at Dean. He thinks about how Missouri had been secretly (which is to say, very obviously) worried yesterday that they wouldn’t be able to project the longing and chemistry needed for a love song. Now here they are, wanting each other wholly and completely.

Castiel truly wants Dean. 

He counts in his head for Dean’s intro, expecting to have to nudge him forward, but Dean hits his mark instantly, singing out the first verse in his soulful tenor that’s so immensely pleasing to the ear:

_ Used to spend my nights out in a barroom _

_ Liquor was the only love I'd known _

_ But you rescued me from reachin' for the bottom _

_ And brought me back from being too far gone _

Castiel tries not to think about how Dean had been drunk when they first met, how different things have been in just the two days they’ve known each other. He tries to push the feelings down, but they rise to the surface as he joins in on the chorus, adding a low harmony:

_ You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey _

_ You're as sweet as strawberry wine _

_ You're as warm as a glass of brandy _

_ And honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time _

Castiel inhales and begins to sing the next verse, eyes trained on Dean, who’s looking at him with eyes that might actually sparkle. How he is supposed to concentrate while receiving a gaze like that?

_ I've looked for love in all the same old places _

_ Found the bottom of a bottle always dry _

_ But when you poured out your heart I didn't waste it _

_ 'Cause there's nothing like your love to get me high _

Dean takes a step closer, deciding at some point to share Cas’ microphone and abandon his own. Castiel’s heart pounds in his chest, eyes zeroed in on Dean’s lips as they sing the chorus again. This time he’s leading and Dean is harmonizing, but it’s just as pleasant, their voices complementing each other perfectly.

_ You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey _

_ You're as sweet as strawberry wine _

_ You're as warm as a glass of brandy _

_ And honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time _

There’s a short instrumental break and Castiel is glad the backup band is helping now, because his hands are shaking and he keeps missing the frets. Dean is just so…gorgeous, and good, and charming, and pure, and a string of other adjectives he can’t even think of right now because he’s so completely smitten. Their feet are touching and Castiel swings his guitar off to the side, realizing he’s barely playing anyways, he’s much too distracted by the look in Dean’s eyes as he sings to him.

_ You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey _

_ Tennessee whiskey _

_ Tennessee whiskey _

In-between singing, Castiel can only gape at him, wide-eyed and staring, transfixed by the man in front of him. God, he could get lost in those green eyes, could lose himself in this if he’s not careful. He wants Dean so much, too much, and his body is vibrating with the need to close the distance between them. 

_ You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey _

_ Tennessee whiskey _

_ Tennessee whiskey _

Dean is panting noticeably as he plays a final chord, eyes still locked on Castiel’s lips, and something primal and passionate takes over Castiel’s body. Without thinking, he reaches with both hands for Dean’s neck and pulls him into a bruising kiss, knocking the wind out of him—if Dean’s gasp of surprise is any indication, at least. Dean’s lips go pliant against his instantly, parting just enough to change their positioning, and then Dean is kissing him back with a fierceness that nearly knocks Cas off his feet. Dean’s lips are wet, his neck a little sweaty, and Castiel revels in it, wanting more, so much more. He llicks against the seal of Dean’s lips in a way that makes the other man shiver. Dean sucks in his top lip and Cas’ hands tighten against his neck, Dean’s hands finding his hips, and he wants nothing more than to push him up against the nearest wall and just… But they aren’t any walls nearby…

It hits him then. They’re still on stage, with thousands of people in the audience are on their feet, watching the spectacle with gasps and exclamations and claps. He takes a small step backwards, giving their mouths space, and leans his forehead against Dean’s.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, thankful they’re far enough away from the mics not to be picked up. Dean’s forehead wrinkles, looking suddenly somber, so he adds, “No, no, not about the kiss. But about doing it here.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Dean says, relief evident in his voice. “Honestly, Cas, you can kiss me anywhere you damn well please as long as you keep kissing me like _ that_.”

Castiel grins slyly. “Oh, there’s much more where that came from.”

Dean looks very pleased by that development, and Castiel can’t help but mirror his expression. He turns to leave the stage but Dean grabs him by the wrist, adjusting his guitar strap so they can bow. 

“Are you bowing for our performance or our kiss?” Castiel laughs, joining him in bending over as the fans scream louder.

“Both, definitely both.” Dean grins, slipping his hand down to thread their fingers together. Castiel feels slightly embarrassed to walk backstage with their hands clasped, but he supposes they just kissed on national TV in front of a live audience, so…what’s a little hand-holding at this point?

Charlie finds them first, practically bursting at the seams. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me you were gonna do that?” She punches Dean squarely on the arm as roadies come to retrieve their instruments. “I’m your _ publicist. _You gotta tell me before you do a stunt like that.”

“That wasn’t a stunt,” Dean says defensively, a flair of passion in his voice. “Charlie, that was the farthest fucking thing from a stunt.”

“It was me, anyways,” Castiel points out, feeling emboldened by Dean’s assurance. “I kissed him.”

“Yeah, but I was about to if you didn’t,” Dean argues, rather adorably in Castiel’s opinion. 

“Is that a fact?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says, grinning and squeezing their clasped hands. “You can’t be _ you _and look at a guy like that and not expect to get kissed.”

“I could say the same thing about you.” Castiel is fighting the urge to kiss him again, to be honest, but Charlie is just gaping at them and Balthazar keeps trying to catch Castiel’s eye to pull him into a private conversation. Even the concert staff are gawking at them like they’re animals in a zoo, and Castiel just wants to ignore them all and revel in all-things Dean. 

“Well, I think it rocks,” Sam says, and Dean relaxes at Castiel’s side. “Not a ton of fun to watch your brother make out with someone, obviously, but not like it’s the first time. Quite the opposite—”

“And that’s enough from you, Sammy,” Dean interrupts, as Castiel chuckles. “Y’all wanna move aside so I can get this makeup off, and then talk to Cas?”

Everyone looks at Castiel suddenly, as if this development is his idea. It’s not, but he’s definitely on board with it, so he squares his shoulders and nods. 

“You can’t leave now,” Rowena says, joining the fray with her thumb scrolling over her phone screen, “you lads have broken Twitter.”

She tilts the phone in their direction, and apparently, the number one trending items are #DeanCastielKiss, #CMALGBTQ, and #BoysKissing.

“Subtle,” Dean snorts with a shrug, not seeming to care one bit about the media circus. He looks over his shoulder at Castiel, giving him another lopsided smile. “You wanna get outta here?”

Logically, Castiel should wonder how this intensely public kiss will impact his career. He should wonder about Dean’s long-term intentions. He should wonder about how far he’s willing to go with someone after only knowing them two days. 

None of this matters, though. Not when there’s a chance of having Dean’s lips back on his.

“Lead the way,” he says, squeezing their hands as they bound together through the crowd and into the early evening sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you're such great readers, enjoy [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_c6QolRn9Yk) of Jensen singing "Tennessee Whiskey"!


	3. Part III

It’s dark out by the time Dean unlocks the front door of his cabin. He fumbles around in the unlit entryway before heading to the kitchen and switching on the lamp. It casts the area in a small, yellow light, and he turns…

And faces Castiel. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he says, almost with a sigh, relieved he gets to say things like this now. Castiel is still wearing his stage outfit—dark jeans, form-fitting jean jacket, tight graphic t-shirt underneath. 

“That was the longest drive of my life,” Castiel confesses, shutting the door behind them. His security team and Benny are hanging out on the front, and even though Dean has been famous for nearly a decade, it’s still awkward as hell knowing that those guys _ know _what’s about to go down between them.

As if reading his thoughts, Castiel mumbles, “It’s weird, right? Having them on the other side of this door?”

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Dean agrees. On the drive, they had debated on whether to head to Castiel’s instead, since his location hasn’t been compromised by the media. Luckily, it seems the paparazzi had been scared off by the amount of security guarding the place last night, because it’s quiet at the moment. Dean hopes it stays that way, because nothing is interrupting his chance to show Cas just how into this he is.

He leans against the counter and tilts his head, beckoning Castiel to him. The other man takes deliberate steps, measured and even, and it’s so different from the passionate kiss they shared on stage. He’s nervous, Dean thinks, and the realization strangely puts him at ease. “C’m’ere, gorgeous.”

He yanks Castiel in by the neck, similar to the move Cas had used on him during their performance, and kisses him slowly. It’s nothing more than a brush of lips, a welcoming kiss, but Castiel seems to fall against him with abandon. Dean rubs Cas’ back soothingly as they trade kisses, closed-mouth and sweet. After a few minutes, they pull away smiling. 

“Hi,” Dean says quietly, hands traveling down to Cas’ hips.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says with that trademark rumble, and Dean can’t help but think that his name sounds amazing coming from _ that _voice. Christ.

“So you, uh…” Dean breathes out, not sure why he wants to talk right now when they should be getting down to business. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Castiel says easily.

“You kissed me.” Dean pauses and Castiel just nods. 

“Not exactly a question,” Castiel points out, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“Yeah, but…I guess, I just—” Dean exhales with a loud gust of air. “Why?”

“Why did I kiss you?”

“Yeah.”

“Because I wanted to.”

It’s a fair answer, but some part of Dean is weirdly deflated by it. “Oh, okay…uh, yeah. Cool.”

“Dean,” Castiel begins, his tone amused but earnest, “what are you asking me, exactly?”

Dean feels Cas’ hands travel down his arms, wrists, hands. They touch silently for a few moments, the contact feeling immeasurably good and reassuring. What _ am _ I asking him? Dean asks himself, not sure he quite knows either.

“I dunno,” he confesses, feeling a bit more at ease as Castiel’s gaze turns soft. “I just…fuck it. I like you, okay? I barely know you but I like you. More than a hookup, I guess. A lot more. And I just—felt like you should know that.”

Castiel’s hand comes to cup his cheek, his thumb stroking Dean’s stubble. “Oh, Dean,” he breathes out reverently, “you’re incredible, you know that?”

Dean tries his hardest not to, but he blushes. “Shuddup.”

“Never.” Castiel leans in, scattering his forehead, his cheeks, his chin with kisses. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What’d you expect?” Dean can’t help but ask, his curiosity piqued.

“Hmm…charming, which you are. Funny, which you are. Stubborn—” 

“Which I definitely am not,” Dean interrupts firmly, and Castiel chuckles.

“But you’re much more than that, aren’t you?” Castiel continues leaving a trail of kisses on him as he speaks, and Dean is feeling a little overwhelmed by the combination of the two. “You’re kind—” _ Kiss_. “Considerate.” _ Kiss. _ “Caring.” _ Kiss. _ “Sweet.” _ Kiss. _

“Somebody’s been watchin’ too much Hallmark,” Dean tries to tease, but his voice breaks a little, because wow. They haven’t even done anything yet and he hasn’t felt this good in a long time. “So that means that you, uh, you…?” 

“Yes, Dean, I like you,” Castiel says plainly, evidently just to appease Dean, but it feels amazing all the same. He pulls away from his constant kissing to look Dean square in the eye. “Even before I knew you, I liked you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean’s pleasantly surprised by this confession. “We talking, ‘full-sized-poster-on-your-bedroom-door’ liked me?”

“And five concert t-shirts,” Castiel confirms with a nod, and Dean laughs, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. 

“So you’re just a crazy fan who’s been playing the long game, huh?” 

“Yes. My whole music career has been leading me to this moment,” Castiel says sarcastically, and they both laugh. Dean grabs him by the collar, their lips orbiting each other. 

“Whatever brought us together, I’m really fucking glad it did,” Dean admits softly, and then they’re kissing again—a little rougher than before, more insistent as Castiel’s tongue slips between his parted lips. He flicks his own tongue and the touch feels electrifying, their hands and arms tightening around one another as they kiss more fiercely. Kissing Castiel feels so warm and solid, so thrilling and heady, and Dean is already getting hard after just a few minutes of being pressed together. He’s wondering how many notches Castiel is willing to take this up to, not wanting to rush him but definitely eager for a little less clothing, when he feels a tentative hand cup his denim-clad erection. 

“Shit,” he hisses, lips feeling wet and swollen, and he grips Cas by the shoulder and leans into his open palm. “Fuck, want you, Cas.” He takes a chance and worms his hand down to Castiel’s groin, and…_ bingo_. He’s just as hard as Dean, and it feels like he’s carrying around a big fucking package. It makes Dean moan just imagining all the incredible things he could give and receive from a dick like that. 

“Feeling’s mutual…obviously,” Castiel says, with a breathless chuckle. “Where?”

“Right here?”

“Hmm…” Castiel chuckles again, the sound music to Dean’s ears. “Our security is sitting on a porch not five yards away.”

“Fine, then anywhere, just please…” Dean bucks his hips a little, Castiel’s hand a solid pressure against his hard cock. Jesus, this would be so much better without clothes getting in the way. 

“If I recall correctly, we have some unfinished business in that hot tub,” Castiel whispers, his voice so low and mischievous that Dean shudders, his mouth suddenly parched.

“God, yes.” 

They begin to stumble forward then, still kissing as their hands reach for buttons and zippers. The only sounds in the cabin are their labored breaths and quiet moans and it’s driving Dean insane, whole body pulsing with lust. By the time they reach the screened-in back porch, Castiel’s lost his denim jacket and shirt, and his pants are around his kneecaps. Dean’s got the same look going, and he pulls away so they can kick off their shoes and finish undressing properly. It’s a little clumsy, largely due to their rushed movements, but then they’re both standing in only their boxers, eyeing each other openly. 

“Should I get the, uh, swim trunks?” Dean asks tentatively, though he’s not figuring this is _ that _type of evening in the hot tub. 

Castiel answers by invading Dean’s personal space, pressing him against the door, and whispers, “No, I want to see you.”

Dean feels swallowed up by Cas’ gaze, his cock so hard he’s leaking against the cotton of his boxers. He feels Castiel’s hands on his waistband—but there’s a question in his eyes. “Fuck yeah,” Dean breathes, and then Castiel is stripping the final layer of clothing off and sucking mark into Dean’s neck. His hand travels down Dean’s chest, fingernails raking gently against one of his nipples, and Dean moans so suddenly that Castiel pulls away with a raised eyebrow. Then he brings his mouth down to Dean’s untouched nipple with a hard and sloppy sucking motion, and Dean cries out, his cock rutting against Castiel’s thigh. He slides his hands into Cas’ boxers and pushes them down, and Castiel somehow manages to step out of them without unlatching his mouth from Dean’s nipple. 

“Shit, Cas…” Dean’s hands are grasping the muscular slope of Castiel’s back, all smooth and solid skin. Castiel ceases his ministrations for a moment and licks a flat, wet tongue against the nub. Dean watches the whole thing with what he imagines must be a completely debauched look on his face. 

“So responsive,” Castiel says approvingly, and he reaches forward to turn the door knob. They stumble into the covered porch kissing again, Dean barely coherent enough to remember to close the door behind them. They separate long enough to push the cover off the hot tub and go up the steps, but as soon as the jets are on and they’re both in the hot and steamy water, their lips find each other again. Dean floats into Castiel’s lap, their hard cocks occasionally brushing in a way that feels startlingly good. But then Castiel switches their position, Dean hovering in the water as Castiel floats down in front of him, hands reaching around to Dean’s ass. He’s not entirely sure what Cas has planned until he feels his cheeks separate, one of Castiel’s fingers circling his rim. 

“Is this okay?” Castiel asks, his voice husky but even as he waits for Dean’s approval. Dean nods aggressively and then feels just the tip of Castiel’s fingertip penetrating him. It’s tight, and he wishes he had stretched himself out recently so he might be more ready for the intrusion, but the water feels soothing and warm and Castiel kisses him through any discomfort. Cas has a knuckle in and Dean’s cock hasn’t even been touched and he’s ready to blow his fucking load. When he feels a second finger, the burn fades quickly as the heat of the water engulfs him. 

All too soon, Castiel’s fingers are removed and Cas is manhandling him into a different spot. Dean’s feeling disappointed by this turn of events when—

“Holy fuck,” he cries out, a jet streaming water against his sensitive rim. “Shit, god Cas, that feels…”

“Thought it might,” Castiel says smugly, watching Dean’s mouth open as he gapes at the feeling. “There are so many things I want to do with you, Dean. So many ways I want to take you apart.”

Dean can barely speak, because the stream of water is massaging his hole in a way that makes his whole body shudder. “God, Cas, _ please_—”

And then Castiel’s mouth is back on his, straddling Dean’s lap as his hands lower down to Dean’s crack again. He spreads his ass cheeks wide, giving the jets more access, and Dean moans against Cas’ mouth. It’s too much—the stimulating rush of water, the intensity of Cas’ kisses, his neglected cock hard as a damn rock. “Oh, fuck, god…Cas, I need more.”

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel’s voice rumbles against his ear, low and breathy. 

“I want you to fuck me, but I don’t think I’m gonna last long enough,” Dean confesses in a rush, not sure if it’s too soon to even offer that as an option, but god, does he want it. “Anything, Cas, _ anything_.”

Castiel pulls away slightly, gazing around at the hot tub as if he’s trying to figure out logistics, and then says, “Sit up there, sweetheart.”

Dean doesn’t necessarily want to get out of the water, but he wants to get off much more, so he scrambles to the side of the hot tub. There’s just enough space on the outer edge for him to rest his head and shoulders, feet planted in the curve of a seat, his ass and dick both open to access. 

Castiel wastes no time in inserting two fingers into his hole once again, and Dean wishes they had thought to bring lube with them, but Cas’ fingers are wet enough they slide in easily. Dean breathes through the feeling and concentrates on the pleasure of it, wondering when and if Castiel might find—

“Fuck!” Dean cries, the pads of Castiel’s fingertips grazing his prostate. “Right there, Cas, fuck, babe, right there.”

Castiel presses against it again just as his tongue licks at the head of Dean’s cock, and it’s official, Dean is in fucking heaven because Castiel Novak has killed him. _ What the fuck? _He lets out a litany of swears when Castiel’s mouth tightens around the head, sucking Dean’s dick into his tight, hot mouth as he continues finger fucking Dean. 

“Jesus Christ.” Dean moans without any shred of dignity, because dear god, Castiel really is taking him apart. His prostate is shooting stars behind his eyes and the sensation of Castiel’s mouth on his cock is about to send him over the edge. Castiel takes him down even farther and swallows, moaning as Dean’s cock stuffs him full, and his lips look so pink and shiny in the dim light that Dean can’t help it.

“Cas, I’m gonna, fuck, I’m about to—”

He tries warning Castiel but it’s no use, he’s incoherent at this point and the orgasm blinds him too quickly. He shoots come into the back of Castiel’s throat, and Cas gags a little but swallows him down, milking Dean’s cock expertly with his mouth. Dean is panting, his chest rising and falling, and he feels boneless when Cas removes his fingers and withdraws his mouth. 

Dean sinks back into the hot tub and crashes their lips together, hands wandering into Castiel’s hair and tugging. The water feels too hot now, sweat forming on the back of Dean’s neck, and after a few more minutes of making out he wants to get his hands and mouth on Castiel’s cock. Castiel sits on the ledge, knees spread with his cock on the surface of the water, and Dean fits perfectly between his parted legs. He uses one hand to stroke Castiel’s length, the other hand steadying him as his mouth sinks down. Castiel’s moan is deep and delicious and Dean takes in more of his cock, feeling hands tighten in his scalp as he sucks. He flicks his gaze up and maintains eye contact with Castiel, wanting to watch him fall apart, and he doesn’t disappoint—his eyelashes flutter, his head is thrown back. After a few more intense seconds, he pulls Dean’s mouth off and shoots come all over his face. Dean’s so surprised by this—he had expected to swallow Cas’ release—that come hits him everywhere. Eyelashes, forehead, cheeks, lips.

“God, that’s hot,” Castiel mumbles, sounding wrecked, and he brings Dean’s face closer and begins to lick the come away. Shit, Dean agrees. That _ is _ hot. 

“You kinky fuck,” Dean breathes, their tongues touching as they begin to kiss again. He swipes at the come on his forehead and sucks the finger into his mouth, Castiel watching with clear desire written all over his face. 

“You’re…Dean, you’re amazing,” Castiel says, hands cupping Dean’s chin and kissing him more tenderly this time. 

“Right back ‘atcha.” Dean feels like he’s glowing, like his heart just might pound out of his chest. “If we can do all that in a hot tub, wonder what we can accomplish in a bed?”

Castiel snorts, licking and rubbing away any remaining come off of Dean’s face. “Believe me, I _ am _wondering.”

Dean surges up and kisses him again, just for good measure, then they start exiting slowly. They pick up the trail of clothes they left strewn all over the cabin, noticing all the puddles of water they’ll have to mop up thanks to the lack of towels. 

“We really did not think this through,” Dean laughs, and they run upstairs and into the master bedroom, shivering from the dripping cold. “Hot shower?”

“Hot shower,” Castiel agrees, holding his clothes in a bundle up to his chest. He pulls his cell phone out of his denim jacket and Dean goes to turn on the shower, thankfully it’s one of those with two showerheads and plenty of space. There’s a lot of naughty things they can get up to, because Dean’s not too far from being ready for round two…

“Cas, get your hot ass in here,” he calls, opening the glass shower door. When he doesn’t hear footsteps, he frowns a little, walking back out of the bathroom to look for Cas. He’s just where Dean left him, naked and shivering and gaping down at his phone.

“You okay?”

“I’m…” Castiel swallows, looking up at Dean with wide eyes. “I have four thousand twitter notifications.”

“Jesus,” Dean breathes. 

“And texts and calls. Balthazar is freaking out. Apparently every media outlet wants a statement about our kiss. His phone hasn’t stopped ringing.” 

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Not just _ People—_he talked to _ The New York Times. _”

“Wow.” Curious, Dean fishes his own phone out of the back pocket of his jeans and taps on the screen. It’s nearly the same as Castiel’s, and he’s distracted by it for a moment, but then he thinks about holding Cas under the hot stream of water… 

He walks over to Castiel, sliding his phone out of his hand and dropping them both on the bed. Castiel looks at him questioningly, but then softens, leaning his forehead against Dean’s.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you waiting. I just get swept up in it,” Castiel says softly. “I suppose I’m still not used to being famous. And certainly not used to being with someone like you.”

“It’s okay.” Dean brushes their lips together, a soft and reassuring gesture. “We have a lot to figure out. It’s gonna be complicated, you’n me dating, but it’ll be worth it.”

“That’s what we’re doing here?” Castiel grins, batting his eyelashes. “You asking me out on a date, Winchester?”

_ I want a lot more than a date. _“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Novak.”

Castiel’s smile is so wide, Dean nearly looks away—his face is too bright, too dazzling. “I’m heading to Vegas tomorrow to visit my brother for a few days. Come with me?”

Being around Cas is so easy, so addictive and exciting, that Dean’s pretty sure he would even risk flying on a plane to spend more time with him. Which is saying _ a lot. _

“If you’re there, I’m there,” Dean says honestly. Castiel grins and kisses the corner of his mouth, and it’s pure unadulterated bliss, having this man hold him. 

A few minutes later, when they’re washing each other in the shower, Dean can’t help but hum “Tennessee Whiskey” under his breath. He blushes when Cas overhears and beams at him. 

“Think that’ll be our song now?” Cas asks, his tone teasing, hands flat on Dean’s back as he rubs soap into his skin. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, without a trace of irony in his voice. If he plays his cards right, he thinks anything could happen. All of it amazing. “Yeah, I think it just might be.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all I got, folks! I really enjoyed this verse, so if I have enough interest from you lovely readers, maybe I'll expand it one day. 
> 
> Drop a comment below and say hi. <3


End file.
